


_sputnik

by sushi_san



Series: 53 [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, All Bets Are Off, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Avengers Family, BAMF Bruce Wayne, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF James "Rhodey" Rhodes, BAMF Natasha Romanov, BAMF Peter Parker, BAMF T'Challa (Marvel), BAMF Thor (Marvel), BAMF Tony Stark, BAMF Wanda Maximoff, Bat Family, Blood and Violence, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Crossover, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Deaf Clint Barton, Death, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Gore, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark Friendship, Jason Todd Being An Asshole, Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Manipulation, Minor Barry Allen/Hal Jordan, Multi, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, One-Sided Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Past Clark Kent/Lois Lane, Past Stephanie Brown/Jason Todd, Peter Parker & Shuri Friendship, Peter Quill Feels, Pining, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Gamora (Marvel), Protective Peter Parker, Protective Vision (Marvel), Sam Wilson is a Gift, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers has Synesthesia, The Author Regrets Everything, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has Issues, everyone pays, loki fucks up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-05-20 10:13:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 109,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14892683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sushi_san/pseuds/sushi_san
Summary: “You ready, Batsy?”“Just hit me, Stark.”The Avengers remember how to be heroes. The League remembers how to be human.





	1. /rome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’ve sung this song before. Maybe, if he does this right, it won’t end the same way. He takes a breath and a chance.

“Hear me... and rejoice.”

Carnage.

_“Valkyrie, keep them safe.”_

Massacre.

_“Yes, your majesty.”_

Silence...

_“And don’t come back.”_

What has he done?

_A lot of it is a haze. Thinking hurts his head, moving makes it worse. But he has to get them out. He may be a trickster, untrustworthy and spiteful, but he knows what's coming. He knows what's waiting if they don't—_

_"Run!"_

_His ears ring, the floor roiling beneath him. What happened? Oh, right. The weapon: an unstoppable beam of destruction that would make his mouth water if it hadn't been aimed at the center of his forehead. It had nicked his hip instead. He can't tell how much muscle it carved out of the meat of his thigh but the whole left side of his body is paralyzed. His body temperature plummets, trying to compensate for the blistering heat. He knows that if he looks down, his hands will be blue, but not with cold._

_The human appears at the edge of his vision, reaching out with barely concealed shock. Loki just shuts his eyes, trying to fight the panic that’s building up. Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, digging into the frosty blue skin and his gaze meets a hot amber glare. “Get up, Odinson!”_

_Is it anger or shame that makes him crawl onto his knees and push himself up? He doesn’t have time to wonder. Magic pulses hot on his fingers, now pale and peach again in the blaring red light. The blast of energy catches the first four Outriders when they turn the corner, slipping on the floor, tripping over the Asgardian bodies. It leaves him breathless, Valkyrie under his shoulder keeping him upright when his head swims._

_“Banner!” She warns, drawing her sword when the rest follow around the hall. They’re hideous, more so than the Chitauri, but much stronger. Mindless, yet intelligent. Disposable, yet deadly. They don’t stand a chance without the beast._

_The man looks wildly between them. There’s a deep cut on his cheek and dust all over his face. “I can’t! I’ll kill someone! I’ll break the ship!”_

_“Soon, there will be no one left for you to kill.” Loki pushes himself off the warrior with a snarl, letting his magic subside the pain of his wound until it disappears. The Outriders prowl closer, silent._

_While his now-dead sister had harnessed her power from Asgard, he draws his strength from his own core. The magic is alive in his veins, bubbling up to play dangerously on the tips of his fingers. It leaps from palm to palm, lighting up his face. Loki had never been one for ale, but power like this carves deliciously into his chest, igniting into a raspy burn of pure energy._

_He shoves both his comrades to the side, not hearing their objections._

_Power explodes out of him just before the first creature leaps off the wall. He grins against the scream it lets out when the light engulfs it entirely. Its brothers follow loyally, feeding themselves to his rage. The magic swallows them whole, licking at the walls, scoring the floors for more._

_He stops more out of boredom than anything else, the flames subsiding, heat calming._

_There’s nothing left but the smell of charred meat._

_“Done with your tantrum?” Valkyrie snaps. She drops her sword into her scabbard, turning languidly on her heel for them to follow._

_Banner, for all his genius, says nothing, dropping his gaze to trot after her._

_“You’re welcome,” he sings, jogging to catch up._

_The royal warrior pays him no mind when he shoulders past the Midgardian. Their footsteps send echoes down the hallways of the ship, the whole vessel rumbling intermittently. The ambient lights flicker too, and somewhere deep down there’s a crash that makes the hair on his neck stand on end._

_“We should be with him,” he mutters, dipping his head low for a reason he can’t name._

_“You didn’t seem so worried about him when you were stabbing him in the back.” Her head whips from side to side before they move through an intersection. Something hollow and mournful howls down there. He shivers and makes sure Banner is keeping up._

_It irks him, how she so casually mentions his actions against his brother. To reduce him to some jealous child simply biting the hand that fed him. His righteous anger is worth more than that. But they don’t understand what they’re dealing with._

_He grabs Valkyrie’s elbow, making sure to stop her cold in the tracks, digging his nails into her skin until her glare fixes on him, sharp enough to cut right past his liesmith exterior, a vulnerability that makes his fingers twitch. “Have you no clue of who the enemy is?” he snarls, low. Her eyes narrow. He could kill her right here, it’d be too easy. Then he could run. Before they can get him. Get everyone._

_“We will meet Heimdall,” she says evenly. Her voice shifts the power and he feels like he’s the one being pulled, the one rooted to the ground. “We will evacuate the Ark as decreed by the All-Father.” The glare turns withering. “Your brother.”_

_He burns, rage rising from deep in his chest. How dare she? An ignoble pawn like the rest of them, pointlessly challenging her place in the grand scheme. He could save her the pain now._

_But she’s scared. Even more than Bruce. She stares him down with admirable strength, the same courage and unwavering valor that marked her as a Valkyrie, marked her as a survivor amongst her sisters. She thinks of it now, as she frequently does since he reawakened her memories. It terrifies her: survival._

_It’s enough to make him hesitate and she knows it. She tears her elbow from his grip. And even though that fear threatens to consume her, her glare boils deep with adamancy. “You will heed his wishes, or not. I don’t care. But since all you wish to do is save yourself, you should run before he catches you. Coward.”_

_Instantly, he knows. He. “You know him. You know who he is.”_

_She stops, almost trips because it’s so abrupt. Her cape curls around her shoulders and her hair hides her face. He doesn’t need to see it to know that it mirrors his own._

_“You know what he’ll do, what hell he will rain on us all.”_

_He feels her apprehension, her bullheaded denial. “We don’t know that it is him.”_

_“Don’t we?”_

_Her eyes turn to meet his and when they do, for a moment her soul is completely bared to him. Every whim and want, every crippling fear and notion. She is his to read, wholly and fully at that moment before she’s gone. He’s seen enough. “What have you done, Loki?” she breathes._

_For the first time in a very long time, he’s without words._

_So he moves._

_The dagger in his sleeve meets no resistance when he guides it into the gap in the armor between her ribs and breastplate. He’s sure she feels no pain until it punctures her lung._

_“No!” Already, Banner’s scream is laced with the monster’s furious roar. He surges in Loki’s peripherals before he throws a hand out, sending the mortal crashing into the wall._

_Valkyrie falls limp in his arm, eyebrows furrowed, so innocently confused. He twists the blade, smiles when she gasps and the blood spills over her tongue. She tries to speak and he hushes her gently. It brings a mad rush of glee to have reduced her to this: a helpless prisoner, water in his hands. He feels the power draining out of her, the magic that she holds within herself, tantalizing on his fingers. He holds back despite himself, still all too aware of the groans in the corner growing louder and louder still._

_But there’s doubt. Seeing her gasping in her arms. For a long moment, he forgets to smile, to smirk and she sees it._

_The roar is louder than anything he’s heard in all his years, sends a mortifying shiver down his spine. He forces himself not to move when it comes again, closer, filled with more rage than he could ever hope to muster._

_Valkyrie collapses to the floor with none of her former grace. It almost saddens him, to see the Last Valkyrie fall, finally extinct and perhaps the last great legacy of Odin, and his father before him._

_He looks away before he can’t. A means to an end._

_He plants his feet in the ground just before the impact. It screams against his instincts, to let the beast throw him like a rag doll, like before. The bulk crushes his shoulder, not quite as crippling as Hela, or Thor, but enough to knock the breath from his lungs, to send him careening down the hall onto his knees._

_He wheezes in a way that isn’t completely an act, taking a few precious moments to gather himself while Banner, now a terrifying green, grunts mournfully._

_In those moments, Loki doesn’t exist as either an afterthought or a worry. He watches the monster hunch over Valkyrie’s body, confused, frustrated. He huffs loudly, most likely expecting a response. There is none. The next growl is louder, more insistent. There’s a wailing undertone that sends a chill over his skin._

_He snarls savagely, breath hot on his face and he pushes himself to his feet. Facing off against the beast is something he would rather do without, but—_

_A means to an end._

_He lifts the spell with a flick of his wrist just before he’s charged again. This time, he truly has no time to dodge before Banner backhands him into the wall._

_The sound echoes throughout the ship, followed by another howl of grief floods the hull._

_Again, the impact doesn’t do any more than empty his lungs, but he feels the beginning of pain in his chest, even his own Asgardian strength working hard to keep up with the beast’s fury. “Enough, creature!” He works his hand around its throat, managing to bring it to its knees with a forceful shove. Green eyes widen with something like confusion when its legs buckle underneath him._

_“She’s alive, you dull monster.” He wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth with a scowl while the beast huffs, confused._

_Valkyrie pushes herself to her feet, reaching a gentle palm towards the fuming creature.“It’s fine, big guy.” Another breath that she saves to send a venomous glare his way. “I’m fine.”_

_The Hulk turns and its roar leaves Loki’s ears ringing.“You_ lie!”  _The rage is clear enough that he knows not to antagonize it further, but the sight of Valkyrie’s lifeless body in his arms—illusion or not—left him more unsettled than he’d like to admit. So he sneers:_

_“Yes, that’s sort of what I do.”_

_The Hulk screeches his anger, intensely complex emotion all poured into one stupid word._ “Liar!”

_Loki waves him off, avoiding Valkyrie’s accusatory glare, and expertly dodging the hand she means to ground him with. His heart pounds loud in his ears. None of this was supposed to happen. None of it._

_At least they have the beast now._

_He continues down the hall, trying to drown out Val’s comforting coos and the Avenger’s tormented growls. The darkness of the hall stares back at him. They couldn’t have gotten this far, it’s too far back. He hisses for his companions to catch up and with another low snarl, they do._

_He’s about to tell the creature to find Thor, help him before he gets himself killed when they find them._

_“Shit.”_

_There are significantly fewer people gathered than he’d hoped, but a lot more than he’d expected. Both facts sink deep into his stomach when the Hulk grunts and Valkyrie runs into his shoulder. The faces that turn to him are desperate and bloody. Traumatized eyes peer through the darkness, terrified of every dark corner, every lurch that the ship gives as Thor takes his beating._

_He should’ve left._

_Then he meets a pair of blue eyes, a shade so familiar that for a moment his heart stops._

_These are innocents. The people he’d been raised to protect and lead with his life._

_He’d wanted to lead them before. They looked to him now._

_He turns to Valkyrie without another thought. “The ship has escape pods on the bottom deck. Take them there.” He’s already beginning to move away. They’ll kill him. Go._

_She finally manages to get her hand around his wrist. “I’m not leaving you.”_

_He could easily take her now, show her her place, who she truly answered to, but the look in her eyes stops him. She holds his wrist not tactically, but urgently. Nothing in the placement of her fingers suggests hostility, suggests a harmful intent. Instead, she looks_ scared.

_She’s seen massacre before. She’s the last of her kind, the only thing keeping Odin’s legion of warriors from extinction right in his hands. And she’s terrified. She knows what’s coming as well as he does._

_“You will,” he resigns. “Hulk, get everybody on those pods.”_

_The beast scowls at him but moves towards the crowd anyways. Only a few of them step back. He watches a little girl take its hand, even while it tosses its head back and roars. “Liar!”_

_“Oh, quiet now.” He almost smiles._

_The hand on his wrist tightens, a hot pressure cutting into his arm with an urgency edging on desperation.“Loki. I’m not leaving.”_

_He tells himself he’s imagining it. Tells himself to hurt her, to make her leave him and save their people._

_He can’t._

_“As your prince, you have no choice but to obey.”_

_Her scowl is only half sincere. “I am the king’s guard. Not yours.”_

_The ship lurches again and a small cry sounds from the crowd, a hushed mixture of fear and shock. They’ll kill him. “Then do it for him,” he snaps. Her eyes flash with something not even he can read, but still, she hesitates. Torment courses across her face, emotions she usually hides so well._

_They’ve sung this song before. Maybe, if he does this right, it won’t end the same way. He takes a breath, unable to break the gaze just yet, and he takes a chance. “They’ll only follow your lead, Brunnhilde.”_

_He can’t remember now if she’d been shocked at all that he knew all this time, but it doesn’t matter. Because no matter how hard it is for her to let go—no matter how hard it is for him to let her—she does. “As soon as they’re safe I’ll come back for you.”_

_For you._

_For you._

_He nods, stumbles over the words. “I know.” As she’s pulling away, he can only wish that it won’t be the last time he sees her and the sentiment is foreign and sticks in his throat. He whispers it anyways when Asgard swallows her within their ranks and he can no longer feel the Hulk’s footsteps in his chest:_

_“Keep them safe.”_

And don’t come back.

“You have had the privilege of being saved by the Great Titan.”

He can’t help the mass of blood and saliva that drips from his lips and onto his chest plate. The glamour at the fingertips that dig into the gouge in his side is weak, but it works well enough to hide his figure while he slumps against the wall. He lets the magic seep into the wound slowly, hardly enough to alert the harbingers of his death. They prowl, lingering around the edges of the hold, stepping over the corpses of their victims, tasting for his fear on the air.

He knows them by name.

“You may think this is suffering. No.” His voice is the same honey sweet sick that tormented his mind for years, the same cloying croon in his ears—his head. “It is salvation. Universal scales tipped toward balance because of your sacrifice. Smile; for even in death you have become Children of Thanos.”

“I’m going to kill you first.” _Thor._

“You have spirit, boy.” A different voice. The General. “What a waste.” There’s an unmistakable grunt and the scuffing of heels on the grated metal floor. He screws his eyes shut against the cry that escapes his brother’s lips when he’s thrown to the ground. “They told stories about you. Gods in the cosmos, deities. Bringers of hope and light.” He has to get closer. He has to know if it’s true. “They said you’d put up a fight,” comes the growl and even across the room, Loki’s spine freezes at the thinly veiled disappointment. “Look at you now.”

He edges around the corner, the remains of a corridor now ripped from its supports and left to smolder. The jagged metal slices his neck and his toes dig into a body. A child.

For a moment, he can’t tear his eyes away from the small girl lifelessly curled around his boot. Gray eyes stare up at him from sunken sockets. She grabs onto his boot, small fingers clawing at his calf. She mouths something too quiet to hear before her head rolls to the side. The bruising around her fragile neck is nearly black.

He feels sick.

Thor’s weak growl is what pulls his gaze away. He kneels, bleeding from nearly every inch of his face. The general stands before him, the psychic at his back. They’re taller than he remembers, deadlier now that their hands drip with the blood of those he’s condemned.

This was his promise. This is his price.

“I’ll kill you,” Thor spits and there’s blood sliding over his tongue and onto his chin when he glares up at Corvus.

The alien tips his head. Loki can’t see his face from here and counts it as a blessing from the All Fathers he’s abandoned. “Stronger men have tried. You are but a drop in the sea of imbalance he intends to purify.”

His hand moves quicker than eyes can follow, sending blood and saliva careening across the room. The crack echoes after his brother’s head is flung to one side, momentum only subdued by Ebony’s disinterested nod.

For a moment he thinks Thor is truly dead. His head hangs down to his chest and Loki takes a sudden step forward, ready to unleash his wrath upon the Order. But he coughs. Once, then again. And his head lifts. “Go to hell.”

“I intend to.”

If he’d thought his brother dead before, he certainly was now.

He’s the same as before, the same as the images burned into his mind. Pure, concentrated fear pools at the base of his spine. His voice is deeper than the bluffs of Jotunn. He prays that Thor will surrender now and spare himself. Though he knows he shouldn’t bother.

“I would have spared you. Half of you. Is that not mercy?” All that the Titan put in his head comes flooding back—the torture. “Tell me, God of Thunder, is the fear of death unknown to you?”

Thor thrashes violently against Maw’s touchless grip. “I have nothing to fear from a coward like you!”

Thanos smiles something sweet. “A coward hides,” he rumbles, like a father admonishing a child. He runs a knuckle down the side of his brother’s face, ignoring the resulting snarl. “A coward runs from a fight. Dishonorable. Pitiable. Someone like your precious brother.” That’s all it takes for the threat to become real, for the target to manifest while the Titan tips his head. Even without a single stone, he and the Order can still overpower them with ease. Thanos removes his helmet, throwing it to the ground absently. He silently begs his brother not to test fate.

But Thor looks up through narrowed eyes and growls through bloodied teeth. “Don’t touch him.”

Loki  _almost_ scoffs. It just isn’t possible for him to be so naive. So _stupid._

Thanos just smiles softly. “I don’t have to.” His face turns when his hand does in Thor’s hair. He can do nothing but swallow thickly and hold his magic close when he swings the god into the far wall, but it falls despite all his effort, even if just for a second. He curses, bringing the magic back to the surface of his skin but his presence has already been sensed. Maw’s head turns in his direction and Corvus follows his gaze, bracing the glaive in one hand. The rest of the Order shifts, like a pride of lions.

“He’s close,” Supergiant preens obediently. Her perch at the helm would give her clear vantage and sight of him if it weren’t for his magic. Still, he can feel her probe his mind through it, unaware of his proximity.

It’s Black Dwarf that almost causes the glamour to fail again. The beast is larger than the Hulk, and a great deal stronger with his siblings. “I can smell him,” he growls, a low bubbly sound from deep in his throat while he paces. Bones break under his feet, blood sloshes.

“Search the rest of the ship,” she growls but it’s not the telepath. Proxima Midnight stalks out of the shadows with all the grace and prowess of an elite assassin. A killer. He’s reminded of his sister, of the Russian on the helicarrier. Of danger.

Thanos shakes his head, turning to his children. “No. He’s here. Watching. He has it.” Loki’s breath grows shallow when he turns his face into the darkness where he stands. “Let me show you the strength of a real God.”

A hand on his leg turns his gaze downwards to the little girl still at his feet.

A distraction.

He lets his consciousness spread through the room until it finds another: a young woman—a mother, maybe—clinging still to the edges of life. Her heart beats like a rabbit’s even with her mind buried under the trauma of her wounds.

She’ll scream loud enough for him to escape.

He casts a look to his brother. There is no way for Thor to see him—he’d always been a brawler, preferring traditional battle over the arts—but his one good eye meets his so easily that he isn’t entirely sure. He can’t look away anyway. “All fathers, forgive me.”

The roar that tears through the hall is not his doing, but the beast’s.

Midnight’s head snaps back. “What is that?”

“Another.” Supergiant’s hum of approval sends a shiver down his spine.

The snarl that erupts in the back of Dwarf’s throat is a terrifying reminder of the horrors inflicted on him all those years ago. “It has come to die.” And what the future holds for him if he doesn’t find a way off this cursed ship.

Corvus steps up, spinning the glaive in his hand with an experienced twist. His boots echo on the twisted metal, echo in the cavern of Loki’s chest when he smiles. “It needn’t ask twice, then.”

Against any other being, the beast’s sudden emergence from the floor may have given him an edge. As the steel and metalwork peel back as easily as flower petals, it’s evident that the Black Order is not an opponent that he stands a chance against alone.

It charges at Corvus first and the general doesn’t flinch for a moment, slashing the glaive in an upward strike that catches its jaw. Black Dwarf pounces on the hero before it’s even hit the ground and Loki sees his chance.

He sprints through the massacre of Asgardians to his brother, struggling to stand on the wall.

The Hulk roars and Loki has to dodge Dwarf’s flying body. Metal flies through the air, not as debris, but as projectiles. At the smallest motion of Maw’s wrist, it engulfs the Avenger, burying it in layer upon layer while its screams grow weaker.

He finds himself pausing. Every fiber of his being, every molecule of his existence screams to run, to get Thor and himself out of Thanos’s reach. But there’s another part of him. A part that he’s made sure never to let see the light of day since she died, since everything good to him in the universe had been snuffed out like a candle.

She whispers to him now.

She’s a different kind of magic: more delicate, with a mind of her own. He can’t control her, not right now, but he can guide her. She can help him.

He doesn’t need to manifest her, she already courses through his veins.

The metal shatters on his command: a careful twitch of his smallest finger. The Hulk tears furiously from the wreckage and they both take a moment to relish the shock on Maw’s face, the sudden narrowing of Thanos’s eyes.

But it’s not enough.

“Hold it down.”

He makes it to Thor’s side and lets the glamour fall away. His brother’s one good eye blinks up, a pool of blue confusion while he gasps. Her energy flows through his hands and into Thor’s shoulder when she lends them her strength. They have to leave now. He’s covered in her scent.

“Brother,” he mutters already. The Hulk snarls with a fury he’s never seen before when Glaive manages a hefty punch to its face. It tears the staff out of his hands, threatening to crush him with the other. Supergiant stalks along the shadows, piercing eyes cataloging every movement in the battle. She hasn’t seen them yet, hasn’t smelled his fear.

Thor struggles to his feet, leaning heavily on Loki’s shoulder. He lets what’s left of his magic settle within the worst of his brother’s wounds, watches nervously as his face turns as they heal before their eyes. “We cannot leave him,” he grunts, taking a moment to press his hand to the gouge in his abdomen, watching it come away clean.

The response falls silent from his lips when the Hulk roars again, this time from pain.

Midnight’s spear catches his shoulder with deadly accuracy. Loki knows instantly that the blade has severed all rotary function when the Avenger lets out a confused snarl, stumbling backward.

The moment of weakness is all the Order needs.

Supergiant tips her head and the Hulk’s body goes completely slack. It’s jaw drops open when she smiles.

He doesn’t blame Thor for screaming, only himself for not thinking to cloak them both. _I told you. I told you. I told you._

The lance flies back into Glaive’s open palm and with dark eyes, he plunges it into the hero’s heart. He’s silent, blood dark and green when it pulses from the wound. It drips onto Glaive’s grinning face, into the dip of his open lips and staining his teeth lime. He plants his foot onto the beast’s shoulder, tearing out the blade along with a hefty chunk of verdant muscle. His mouth opens without a noise, closes, then opens again.

Thor fights his hold but Loki doesn’t know if his brother lets himself be held back or if it’s the Tesseract playing the strength of his body. He needn’t have bothered because Thanos’s knowing gaze finds them anyways.

Glaive kicks the beast onto his back and spears him through the other shoulder, straight through the floor on the other side. This time, Hulk screams. It’s a full, rich sound that pulls bile from his stomach but not quite to his throat. “It was a commendable effort,” the general comments casually.

“Loki.” Thor’s voice pulls him out of the abyss of the Titan’s gaze. _Run now. Run._

Thanos’s rumble borders on fatherly, a croon much softer than Odin’s that reminds him of his true father. _Laufey._ “The stone.” The outstretched hand easily dwarfs his own, just as it did before when it—

Again, Thor pulls him back. “Loki, don’t—” he murmurs. He turns back, expecting the same fear in his blue eye that must be in his own but Thor’s gaze captures him suddenly. There’s no horror, no terror that had been a constant in all of his experiences with the Titan, just resignation.

_There’s red in my ledger. I’d like to wipe it out._

Because of him.

_I thought the world of you._

The guilt nearly sweeps him off his feet and the god must feel the tremor in his body because the hand on his shoulder digs in a little bit harder.

He should’ve stayed on that wretched planet.

“What did I tell you?” Thanos hums. Flashes of darkness overcome him, of cold. Millennia of nothing but torture, of the bonds of his every atom being torn apart with reckless abandon, the burning in his veins and the sea of _pain._

He doesn’t know how hard he’s digging his nails into Thor’s hand until he feels a wetness in his palm.  _It’s that_ witch.  _She’s in your head._ The glamour is loose on his skin, uncontrolled and wild, and she knows it.  _Compromised._

Thanos continues, not moving but somehow encroaching closer. Thor snarls, pushing him behind his shoulder. “When I sent you to Earth—a  _child_ playing at war. Waging destruction with a Stone in your hand.”

Cold. It had been so _cold._ When they’d beaten him, left him in his filth for centuries only to drag him out. Only a day had passed. Until he’d been desperate enough— _stupid enough—_ to make a deal.

One that cost him everything.

_Get out of my head!_

“What did I tell you,  _trickster.”_

She tickles the vulnerable spot behind his heart, a reminder just beyond the folds of space, in a curtain no one else would think to search. His fingers reach out to graze on of her smooth faces and power floods through him. Strength makes to tremors stop and Thanos tilts his head at his smirk. “It seems to have slipped my memory.”

The smile he returns is equally sinister. “Let me reacquaint you.” Thor is torn out of his grip with a choked grunt. And Loki lets him. “His blood will be on your hands, Laufeyson.”

She fits in his palm with a delicious heat, intoxicating and addictive. He pulls the energy from her recklessly, despite the fact that it’s well within her power to destroy him. He can feel her raw energy in his veins, a fire that glows underneath his skin.

_More._

It wipes his mind clean: There no doubt, no fear, a blissful  _nothing._ Nothing except absolute  _power._ The intensity breaks a smile onto his lips, something genuine that couldn’t be conjured up by his most wild imagination.

He could shift worlds like this, entire universes, civilizations all at his feet.

The mad grin splits his entire face. “And yours on mine.”

And the world does shift.

Disorientation he’s never known sweeps the world out from under him. Suddenly, he’s moving faster than light and not an inch, all at once. His fingers stream through the timelines, everything in the universe—futures, pasts, presents—they all fly past his fingertips. He feels the chill of deep space where there are no sounds, no light. He feels the burning passion of a dying star, the cosmic dust on his cheeks as he careens through space. All throughout, she holds his hand, shows him the deepest parts of the galaxy that life would never dream of touching.

Races rise and fall before his eyes; life and death lay bare at his feet, at his whim. Never in his most colorful imagination would he dream of something so beautiful.

Then it crashes.

Pain splits his head in two, shatters his bones and tears his muscles apart. It’s silent and deafening at the same time, his shriek coming out soundless while his eyes screwed shut. Nothing stops the blinding pain, the  _heat._ The magic boils off his skin as she rips it away. She consumes him, reaching greedily for the glamour, for his lifeblood. And there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

She’s torn out of his grasp. From his own negligence or some outside force, he doesn’t know. With it comes his tortured scream, ripped from his lungs that seem to shrivel up and expand all at once. His senses are lost as space crumples around him and the most intense fear grips his mind.

Colors he’s never seen before speed past him and voices he’s never heard filter by.

He’s falling through.

_“I‘ll see you soon.”_

Something rips into the vulnerable spot behind his heart and stops him cold.

_“What about Phoebe?”_

He can’t breathe, can’t even think beyond the sensation of spinning end over end through space.

_“Just what the doctor ordered…”_

Thor. Thor—what happened to him? What did he do?

_“Oh! Turn this one up!”_

He can’t feel it. His magic.

_“I won’t be gone long.”_

It’s gone.

_“I’ll let them know.”_

What has he done?

_“Let’s call him in and hope he picks up.”_

And then there’s absolutely nothing.

The six figures stand alone in the dark of the wrecked Statesman. None of them are strangers to the silence of space, even as the ship’s atmosphere begins to fail. The tallest moves to the shattered window, the carnage of his wrath drifting unobstructed within the inky darkness of space. His growl is the only sound for miles:

“Hunt him down. I want the stone.”


	2. /smog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gotham is burning.

> > INCOMING TRANSMISSION…
> 
> > IDENTIFICATION: RED_ROBIN
> 
> > ACCEPT? Y/N
> 
>  
> 
> <oracle> y
> 
>  
> 
> > ENCRYPTING CONNECTION...
> 
> > INITIALIZING...
> 
>  
> 
> [01:11]<redrobin> u there?
> 
> [01:17]<oracle> Sorry. busy night. what’s up?
> 
> [01:17]<redrobin> its k. nbd
> 
> [01:24]<oracle> What do you need?
> 
> [01:25]<redrobin> intel
> 
> [01:25]<oracle> on?
> 
> [01:52]<oracle> Red?
> 
> [04:49]<redrobin> how busy are u
> 
>  
> 
> > CONNECTION TIMEOUT

 

_“Shit!”_

The carton falls into the window, spilling a healthy handful of fresh fries into his lap and the door.

There’s an impatient sigh in his ear, the sound of a raised eyebrow and a tapping foot. He stuffs a fry into his mouth anyway. _“Are you busy?”_

“No, no—just—can I get some more fries?” The employee frowns at him, glances at the mess in his car and suppresses an eye roll. They disappear into the kitchen anyway, leaving the window propped open.

He smiles when the next condescending line comes over the phone, Barbara sighing in resignation. _“You’re ordering food.”_

He balances the cell between his cheek and shoulder, scooping the food into his takeout bag, trying not to lick the salt off his fingers. “You just caught me in the middle of things. Hold on.”

 _“Take your time,”_ she sighs, unable to see his apologetic grin. It only takes another minute to get his replacement fries and prop open the carton of chicken nuggets in his lap, straw between his teeth while he turns back onto the road. It isn’t too late yet and with cars still on the road, he has to watch the speed more closely than he’d like.

“So let me get this straight,” he says. He keeps one hand on the wheel and stabs his straw into his cup, missing the first two tries. “You’re going to make me drive through rush hour traffic, all the way back to Gotham, on a Tuesday night, to dress up in spandex and play tag?”

She scoffs. _“It’s an hour drive. Plus fifteen if you take back roads… like you did.”_

He turns onto the main road, forgetting his blinker. “I don’t appreciate you tagging my car.”

_“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”_

“I paid for it myself, y’know.”

_“Just because you pay the insurance doesn’t mean you own it.”_

It’s his turn to scoff, still smiling. He bites into a chicken nugget. “It was given to me.”

_“I hope you’re not getting grease all over the steering wheel.”_

He shrugs even though there’s no way for her to see it. “I’m a man on a mission, Babs. A man’s gotta eat.”

_“I’m just sayin’, all the shit I do for you boys, I don’t see a dime of it.”_

Another voice comes over the line, a familiar tenor of tired wisdom and condescension. _“Language.”_

Barbara scoffs but there’s a thick smile on her tongue. _“Whatever, Al.”_

Longing pulls on his heart. He hasn’t been away long but it’s definitely been awhile. Already, encroaching on Gotham City’s outer limits, he’s flushed with anticipation. No matter how intensely he claims to hate Gotham and her sinister walls, there’s a part of him that loves her, something Bruce must’ve given him back in his Robin days. As horrible as the city is, it has a way of recreating the people that visit, not necessarily in a good or bad way, but in a way.

He’s still on the mainland but he can see the bridge coming up as he takes the off-ramp towards the coast. Gotham Bay is the same graphite color he remembers, even in late twilight. The island ignites the water and he can make out the outline of Wayne Tower. Gotham University’s outer grounds skates past on this side of the river and beyond that are the dark hills that house the city’s wealthier estates—Bruce’s most notably. He won’t see it from here, tucked away deep into the outer reaches of the city limits and hidden behind a number of rocky outcrops and forestry. But he’s not headed there anyway. Not yet.

He follows the signs that will lead him into the heart of midtown Gotham, a beeline for the brighter face of the city if you chose not to look too close.

“You’re with them now?” he hums into the speaker, keeping one hand on the wheel, the other on the clutch.

She sounds disappointed. _“Still benched.”_ He sympathizes but understands Bruce’s decision. A torn ACL and busted meniscus isn’t something even a Bat can just shrug off. But her allotted time of mandatory rest is almost up. She’ll be back on patrol within the month and Dick knows just how torturous the last few weeks can be after being confined so strictly.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll call in sick tomorrow and we can road trip. Wherever you want. My treat.”

There’s a distracted pause and he remembers that even though she’s not wearing the cape right now, she still working full time. _“A whole day with you? Exhausting.”_

He grins. “We can bring Steph and Dami. Like, a family thing.”

 _“He has school. And Steph is taking classes at GU now. Remember?”_ Her tone is teasing but there’s also a hint of worry. That he’s been working too hard lately, taking too many shifts. And it’s not that it isn’t hard keeping up appearances as both vigilante by night and cop by day. It is, and some mornings the only thing that gets him out of bed is the thought of some other lowlife pedophile getting away with one sick fantasy or another. And this last case… this last case was hard.

“Shit. Then, how about dinner. You and me. Nothing fancy, if you want. For old times sake. No games.”

He gets the image of her turning away from the monitors, putting her chin in her hands and smirking. _“Very tempting.”_

“For my favorite backseat Bat?”

The laugh he gets is a bark of pure familiarity and comfort. Relief. _“Very funny.”_

“So that’s a yes, right? I pick you up and you pick the where.”

 _“You got it.”_ He crosses right into Gotham, feels the mood change right when the wheels of the car hit the far side of the bridge and he’s shifting down to third. _Back to work._ She must know the instant he enters the actual city because her voice softens. _“Watch your ass out there, Dick.”_

The line cuts and he’s left with the streetlights and gargoyles.

“Welcome home, Boy Wonder.”

 

 

> > INCOMING TRANSMISSION...
> 
> > IDENTIFICATION: RED_ROBIN
> 
> > ACCEPT? Y/N
> 
>  
> 
> <redrobin> y
> 
>  
> 
> > ENCRYPTING CONNECTION...
> 
> > INITIALIZING...
> 
>  
> 
> [19:58]<oracle> Hi stranger <3
> 
> [19:58]<oracle> You going out tonight?
> 
> [19:59]<redrobin> titans got me benched :(
> 
> [19:59]<oracle> Be careful
> 
> [19:59]<oracle> :p
> 
> [19:59]<redrobin> u kno me so well~
> 
> [20:00]<redrobin> u get what i asked for?
> 
> [20:01]<oracle> Yeah. I found some more files off some backwater archive. Cant vouch for credibility so :/
> 
> [20:01]<oracle> Uploading now.
> 
> [20:02]<oracle> _HCnsO293_19.zip (89.4MB)_
> 
> [20:03]<redrobin> thanks o
> 
> [20:03]<oracle> Mind if I ask why you’re looking into obscure ancient civilizations.
> 
> [20:04]<redrobin> just a lead. probs nothing. the name?
> 
> [20:04]<oracle> even NW could’ve lied better than that.
> 
> [20:04]<oracle> You swing by in person and I’ll give you the name
> 
> [20:09]<oracle> Zachary barksdale. ass.
> 
> [20:10]<redrobin> <3
> 
>  
> 
> > TERMINATE SESSION? Y/N
> 
>  
> 
> <redrobin> y
> 
>  
> 
> > CONNECTION TERMINATED

 

He finds them exactly where Babs tells him he will: on the roof of an abandoned water reclamation facility on the shores of Gotham River. Across the water are the Narrows, the center of Gotham’s poverty and crime, home to one Arkham Asylum. The three figures stand more or less shoulder to shoulder, backlit by the floodlights, all unmistakably _Bat-like._

“Can’t say I’ve missed the smell,” he grins coming up behind them. All but one return the smile in varying degrees of exasperation. The other keeps his gaze fixed stoically on the Asylum.

“Nightwing,” Robin nods. He’s curt but the side of his mouth quirks up in the beginnings of a smirk. The lenses of the domino peek out of the shadows of his hood, pulled up around his head and over his shoulders. He’d hit a growth spurt since Dick last saw him. He’s passed Spoiler in height, head now reaching well past Dick’s chin and to his father’s shoulders. He’s not as lanky as he used to be either. His shoulders are beginning to fill out, arms already taking on the lean muscle of a practiced athlete. _He’ll grow more,_ Alfred had insisted the last time he’d been at the cave, putting together the latest design of Damian’s ever-changing uniform. _Even taller than his father._

 _But still short enough to be my baby brother,_ Dick thinks, taking a hand to Damian’s hooded head and cuffing him lightly. “The one and only.” He’s always been older than his years. (Barbara had confessed to him earlier in the week that he and Bruce had gotten into an argument during dinner about the state of the housing market, of all things.)

“What’s up, Wing?” Spoiler’s expressive eyes gleam from under her own purple hood. The mask covers everything below them but he knows she’s grinning just as wide as he is. She too has changed. The hair that slips against her cheeks is noticeably darker, bright blonde traded for a darker honey color: dyed. She’s slimmed down too, much leaner than she’d been the last time they’d worked together.

Stephanie Brown has always been the black sheep of the family, ever since she weaseled her way into their hearts. She’s not soft-spoken or cold, not brooding or angry. She’s bubbly. She’s happy and she’s bright and Dick will never understand what led her to this life—and neither will Bruce. But she’s a Bat.

He fist bumps her, still draping an arm over Damian’s broad shoulders, and winks. “Hey there, short stack. Batgirl says you’ve got your own route now. You’ve officially graduated—congrats!”

She beams. He knows all too well what it feels like to finally be entrusted with a route, to have a responsibility to Gotham outside of the Bat’s shadow. His first solo patrol would always be burned into his memory, the taste of freedom and trust on his skin. She leans back on one booted foot, throws a shoulder back and raises an eyebrow. “Like you didn’t know Old Town was mine anyway.”

He just grins and high fives her. “Territorial already, I like it.” It made sense for Bruce to give her some of her old haunts, where she grew up. She’d already been Spoiler for a long time before they’d had to step in.

There’s a very heavy scoff, a familiar _tt!_ that gathers thick on the tip of a sharp tongue. Robin growls at her, hood masking his expression although the narrowed white-out lenses leave little to the imagination. “Don’t get used to it. Mistakes won’t be tolerated.” Aggression aside, seeing the kid ignites a bundle of warmth in Dick’s chest that had since frozen in Blüdhaven’s grip. Although only as far as Detroit, or Lansing, Gotham’s sister often feels oceans away instead of a lake.

She turns her nose up and smirks deeply, only affording to look down on the younger Bat due to her vantage on the roof’s raised wall. “Evidently, one was.”

Damian scowls and the thunderous reprimand comes soon after. “That’s enough.”

The first time Dick realized that he couldn’t remember his mother’s face, it’d been the Bat’s he’d sought out. Not the cowl or the Knight, not the bachelor billionaire Bruce Wayne, but the nameless man who somehow straddled the line between them.

The Bat he’d come to trust more than he trusts that the sun will rise in the east. Who sleeps with socks on and has trouble functioning before two in the afternoon. Who still can’t be trusted to make himself a decent pot of coffee, and has the emotional capacity of a wooden door, but would lay his life down for any one of them. The one who encompasses both billionaire and vigilante while also somehow managing to beat even Alfred’s blueberry pancake recipe.

Tonight, however, there’s no mistaking the man before him: protector of Gotham, and defender of justice.

Wet clouds hang low in the sky and the never-ending wind blows harder. His cape is heavy—upgraded material from his last visit home when Ivy had ripped it clean off—and dances on the breeze, highlighted only by distant streetlights. He can make out the stubble on his chin that the cowl fails to hide, the deep set of his frown that sends more than a couple warning bells straight to his head.

Robin turns obediently, arms crossed to mimic his father’s. Spoiler fakes a yawn and rolls her eyes.

“There have been increased tachyon energy readings all over Arkham,” he says without greeting or preamble. He doesn’t move when Nightwing steps away from the younger Bats and onto the precipice of the factory. “They’ve been alarmingly high for the past seventy-two hours but Oracle didn’t receive the reports from the Watchtower until this afternoon.”

 _Batgirl,_ he wants to correct, then thinks better of it. In Batman’s mind, he supposes, there’s no difference.

The Asylum sneers before them, carving into the glittering horizon, past the muted colors of the Narrows and the river. Already, a handful of cruisers splash the crumbling brickwork with cherry and cobalt. The conversations and shouts of the officers are unintelligible from this distance and they look little more than big ants, but they’re shouts nevertheless.

“Tachyon. That’s—“

“Breach energy,” Batman finishes curtly. His gaze never wavers, never falters from the commotion past the water.

Dick sinks into a crouch, studying the pattern of the officers and the guards. The floodlights inside and outside the compound burn bright, and the shadows that pass in front of the windows don’t stop. _They’re preparing for an evacuation._ “Breaches don’t just open like this,” he muses. “How long?”

“The last couple of days. It wasn’t a huge concern until tonight. Too many fluctuations, it’s becoming unstable and at this level of activity, the resulting shockwave could obliterate the entire block.” As usual, his voice does nothing to further emphasize the weight of the situation at hand. The god-awful gravel remains constant, if not slightly accusatory. Towards what, Dick hasn’t the slightest idea.

He hums in acknowledgment, however, standing. “You’ve started evacuating?”

Batman glances at him now, the cowl and lenses sliding over to fixate on his own for a brief moment before returning to the Asylum. “We’re waiting for Gordon’s all clear.”

“And then what?”

“We send them to either Blackgate or the Ionia Correctional Facility depending on their threat level until we can assess the damage.”

And that’s a lot of apprehension at once. He looks over at Batman, not to read his face but to find comfort in it. “Blackgate is nearly at capacity and the Ionia isn’t equipped for these kinds of patients.”

His jaw sets, whether irked at his challenge or the fact that it’s the truth, he doesn’t know. “If you have any other ideas feel free to share.”

Affrontedness comes first, as it always does when handling the prickly Rubik’s Cube that is Bruce Wayne. He lets it settle, cocks his head. “Have you tried calling the Flash? Star Labs has plenty of space.” Batman doesn’t answer and if anything, his frown deepens. “What about Superman?”

He starts, turning a glare on him that reminds him explicitly of why he’s the Dark Knight. Why the city’s underground fears him. He squares himself, ready for whatever brand of bullshit the billionaire is prepared to spill.

“We don’t need help,” he growls low enough that the two other Bats on the rooftop won’t be able to hear. “Gotham is under my protection. Not the Flash’s and not Superman’s. Understand?”

He can’t help the scoff because he’s the only one of them (besides Alfred) that can push and push and push Bruce’s buttons and come away unscathed. “I understand that the two of you are working things out and that you said it wouldn’t interfere with work.” It’s a low blow and he knows it. The jab gets somewhat of an intended result, Batman’s eyes narrowing to razor-sharp slits.

“Bootycall, B,” Spoiler interrupts then. The two men turn to her, finger extended into Gotham’s dreary cloud bank and to the icy insignia on its waterlogged underbelly. At the same moment, the energy on the ground changes from apprehensive to purposeful.

“Gordon’s given the order,” Robin growls, crouching on Batman’s other side with a heavy scowl.

Bruce frowns even more heavily, jaw clenching now. “If the breach becomes unstable it could kill a lot of people. Send them into the Bleed or worse.” He doesn’t know much about breaches, mostly just bits and pieces he’s been able to tiredly glean from Wally’s post-mission ramblings. The Bleed has been one that he’d dozed off to but it doesn’t sound good. “Spoiler, start the evacuations as soon as officers get here. Establish a four-block perimeter. Robin, get back to the cave.”

Robin launches to his feet, an indignant rage written plainly across his face. “What?”

“Tch!” Spoiler snickers.

Batman looks down at him with narrowed eyes until Damian drops his own, looking more like a submitting wolf than a teenage boy. “There isn’t much to be done about a breach. The most we can do is evacuate unstable locations and hope that the energy disperses.” Then he adds while looking away, “Besides, it’s a school night. Don’t argue. Go.”

Damian’s face twists even behind the domino but he doesn’t argue further. “Night, baby bird.” It rubs Nightwing the wrong way but he waves apologetically anyway.  He turns to Batman when the teen vaults over the far end of the building, fuming the whole way. He also can’t help the twinge of guilt that it had only been due to his cheeky remark that resulted in Robin’s shortened night. “Why’d you send him back? We both know we need all the help we can get if we’re talking about evacuating _Arkham.”_

The number of crazies in those walls… Jonathan Crane, Victor Zsasz, Jervis Tetch, Hugo Strange… Joker.

Bruce nearly cuts him off with the low grit of his voice. “I need you to find Red Hood.”

And that’s… a step back. Way back.

His mind blanks and struggles to keep up.

Red Hood. Hero turned mercenary turned criminal turned… something. There’s a connection here that he can’t see.

“Batman…”

He doesn’t look at him, just keeps frowning across the water. “He’s been unaccounted for and if anything happens here that we can’t contain then he can’t know.” He’s still shocked, speechless and Bruce knows it. He hesitates for a long moment before he speaks again. “It’s for his own good.”

This time the anger is real. He’s always been more level-headed than the rest of the Bats, but Bruce’s insinuation is a couple hundred degrees too far.

He can’t help covering the anger in his bite. “Hood’s or Joker’s? You know I don’t agree with his… _methods_ , but protecting him? From Jason?”

There’s no visual sign that he’s done something wrong but he glares in a way that tells him that he’s pushing it. “Watch your mouth.” _Rule One: No names in the field._ His teeth dig into his cheek, forcing down a bitter slew of curses personally addressed to the man.

“Hood has been on the up and up for months now,” he says, calming himself with a deep breath, leaning into the hero’s space and he grunts. “If he finds out that you’re protecting Joker, you’ll lose him.”

Maybe it’s the wrong thing to say because Bruce’s eyes shoot up to meet his with a lot more initiative than he expected. Since Jason’s impromptu return to Gotham and the world of the living, Dick still isn’t entirely sure if Bruce’s plan is to fix things or drive the relationship into the ground. _One step forward, ten steps back._

“We are not protecting Joker,” he grinds out, pushing him back with a firm gauntlet.

He almost forgets that they’re sharing this roof with another Bat when Spoiler’s plum cowl edges into his vision. She’s only got eyes for Bruce, all narrowed and guarded. _Let him deal with her anger,_ he thinks thickly. Not even Bruce could get himself out of Stephanie’s wrath when she’s furious enough—and hadn’t that been a wonderful thing to find out. “You think he’ll get out?” she asks quietly but not softly.

He avoids her eyes. “We can’t trust the GCPD around him if it comes to an evacuation and there’s a chance he could be planning something. You need to keep him away from here.”

A low rage simmers deep in his stomach. “That’s complete—have you even tried calling him yet?”

“He won’t answer. Get Oracle to give you his location,” he answers tightly, moving away at the clear dismissal.

But Dick, like Jason, never learned when to leave well enough alone. “You have him tagged. Is that for all of us or just him?”

He growls this time, for real. An order that tears slowly out of his throat when he spits it over his shoulder. “Enough.” Then with the coldness of the night itself: “Keep your lines open. If anything happens, call,” and he’s gone. The dark swallows him up and he’s disappeared from the rooftop, probably already halfway to the station.

Spoiler scoffs, trying to fill the measly space that Bruce takes up (conversationally at least). She rocks a hip to the side, pulls down the mask with one gloved finger. “Y’know, for a superhero, Batman is a really shitty dad.”

“He’s not that bad.” He turns back to the Asylum, all flickering cherry, and blue. She doesn’t voice the question bouncing between them and he thanks the universe for the little things.

“I can try going after him,” she says, stepping up by his shoulder. The blonde catches in light, a halo around an innocent soul willingly sacrificed in favor of a life of secrecy. If she regrets it, she shows no sign. Never does. It takes him another moment to put together that they’re not talking about Bruce. “No offense but he might hear me out without shooting me.”

She looks up at him with clever eyes. _Slytherin,_ his memory pulls from a long forgotten night. Jason had grinned against her ear in what he’d previously thought was a brotherly gesture, _to my Ravenclaw._ He shakes his head out of the past. “If he finds out that we’re protecting Joker from him then he’ll lash out.”

She follows his gaze across the water and the wind bites their cheeks. To the east, on the horizon lurks Lake Huron, an abyss of inky waves and currents. Her voice is a light in its presence. “He wouldn’t hurt me. That’s what I’m saying.”

A light he can’t afford to let Jason blow out. He forces a smile on his face and Spoiler isn’t quite a good enough detective to see through it. “I’ll be fine, little bird. Stay safe for me?” he says, walking back to the opposite edge, throwing a finger gun in her direction.

She smiles before the mask goes up to hide it. Her eyes are expressive enough that she shouldn’t have bothered, two lighthouses in a drowning world. “Safe? That’s my middle name.” She grins, mimicking his moves pitching herself back off the edge.  “Wait, no it’s not. It’s—”

And just like everything else she’s gone.

Barbara sends him the location silently, and even with his comm muted, it’s tense.

He finds the perch south of the Narrows in a richer part of the city downtown, not like Jason’s usual spots—at least the ones he knows of. It’s past his own apartment and another one of his own safe houses. Here he has to be mindful of the streetlights and the curtains that pull back at the slightest sound. Still, it isn’t Gotham without rusty fire escapes.

He watches from farther down the street first, surveying the surrounding area. A few thugs clump around a fire barrel and a few more think they’re discreet when they shoot up at the back of an alley. Dick winces. It’s illegal, but it’s not _Batman_ illegal. As long as they keep their drugs and needles to themselves (or between the four of them as observed), they would receive no intervention from Nightwing or any of the others.

(He mentally maps the location for Barbara’s database.)

Farther down the road, a couple walks down the sidewalk, a child between them, another on her father’s shoulders. He watches shadows behind them, keeps an eye on the suspicious hooded figures that seem to harmlessly walk past. He poises himself to interrupt if he has to until the family makes it to a tiny apartment building on the corner, laughing amongst themselves. As soon as they're gone, the men continue, disinterested.

(He’ll check on them before he finishes out the night.)

Sirens sound in the distance and a dog barks somewhere but it’s a quiet night by Gotham’s standards. After ten minutes and no update from the cave, he moves in.

Getting in through the window is easy enough. His feet brush the carpet inside, pitch black.

Babs finally talks when he’s all the way in. _“Nightwing—”_ She cuts herself off.

“This is wrong,” he says lowly, ducking inside. There are no alarms, not traps that spring up. Nothing. And for a Bat, that’s everything.

He closes the window behind himself, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. “Window was unlocked.”

_“Maybe it's not a perch?”_

It’s a perch. He confirms that first. A couch that looks nice enough to crash on, sparse kitchen. It would’ve looked like any young adult’s apartment if it wasn’t for the myriad of Bat paraphernalia. A busted chest plate sits on the kitchen counter mid paint-job, the coffee table littered with empty mugs and birdarangs. A utility belt lays on the back of a desk chair in the corner of the room. The computer rivals the cave’s. Towers line the far wall, blinking and whirring mutely. The Bat symbol pulses idly on the main monitor and his stomach turns. “Are you sure he’s here?”

_“He hasn’t moved since you got there.”_

But something is off. He can’t put a name to it but the apartment leaves an odd taste in his mouth. He’s been to a few of Jason’s perches and none of them had ever been this messy. Pizza boxes sit overturned in the trash can, Chinese takeout open on the counter and clothes everywhere. No, Jason is neat. Almost obsessively.

He moves into the kitchen, stepping around a few discarded shirts and shorts much too small to fit around the waist of someone Jason’s size. The food on the counter smells, molding. There’s a half gallon of milk on the island, uncapped and forgotten. It’s almost solid when he picks it up. “There’s something wrong.”

_“What?”_

Then he sees the cowl.

It’s draped over the computer desk, almost as if it had been thrown there in passing. But it’s unmistakable.

“Tim.”

The air around him sours instantly and his senses flare up before he even knows what the danger is. Then it presses against the back of his neck.

 _Tim’s_ perch.

“Look at what the Bat dragged in.” The voice is ragged and sly, all sorts of raw danger coming filtered through the red helmet he’s sure is standing behind him. _Definitely not Tim._

Like the slow pull of alcohol, the annoyance starts on his tongue before burning deep into his core. “Hood.” _The alarms were disabled. Jason is the only one Tim trusts enough to disarm them._ He should’ve known better. He should’ve known.

_“Tim? What are you—“_

He feels the ex-hero lean forward into his ear with a sultry croon. “The adults are talking now, sweetheart.” A gloved finger digs hard into the shell of his ear, tearing out the earpiece to toss onto the countertop. He bites his cheek when the equipment is lost in the silence.

“Hey, pretty bird,” he croons. The cold circle of the gun’s muzzle presses harder into his spine. Bluffing is a cheap trick. But an effective one. “Long time no see. How’s Blüd treating you?” His voice dances around his head, egging on the most subtle of reactions. “All sorts of trouble going on there.”

He wants to point out that his jab at Barbara is wrong, that the redhead is older than the both of them by at least three years in Dick’s case. But it’s not the point. “Nothing I can’t handle,” is what he bites out instead, cursing himself when Jay no doubt grins.

“I heard about Blockbuster. Not the cleanest job, but it’s a good start.”

Even for him, it’s a low blow. Low enough for him to narrow his eyes and start focusing on the acute pressure on his spine, Jason’s exact stance: pitched to the right and wide on the left—open. But he couldn’t possibly know. He’d never let it happen.

Jason Todd is a gray area in his life. He can’t be conquered or smothered into submission, like a trick candle. There was a point when he hated Jason. Misplaced, sure—but hated all the same. Then everything went wrong.

Bruce had returned from Ethiopia, not with a familiar snarky Robin, but a corpse and a vendetta that has yet to be matched by any other he’s ever seen. It was one of the only times he’d ever seen Bruce truly dive off the deep end. The alcohol, the nightmares, the violence, there were moments in the haze when he truly didn’t know whether or not he’d find the man dead, either in his own bathroom or in some alleyway after he’d jumped without a line.

And slowly things had begun to fix themselves when the universe sent them Tim Drake.

Exactly how Jason came back is still a mystery to them. The events of the three subsequent years even more so until he’d returned to Gotham under a new name with Lazarus eyes and a taste for blood—lots of it.

They’d always fought, even before he’d died. The banter drove Alfred mad on the good days, batshit insane on the bad (pun intended) but he’d never tried to kill _him._ Never actually shot _him._

He remembers the first time _“Replacement”_ had fallen from his lips and cracked like his voice onto broken pavement. He remembers the hot expand and contract of the air by his face, the painful crack of tinnitus that threw his balance to the wind.

No, Jason’s never shot him. But he would.

It’s a risk to turn, he knows, but he also knows Jason better than the man thinks he does.“What are you doing here?”

The light from the window doesn’t reach back here and the ones from the computer only outline Jason’s face so all he can see is a dark slate and the tip of a head. “I could ask you the same thing. You following me? Did the big, bad Bat send you here to keep me in line tonight?” He tries to look where his eyes might be, not even sure if he’s got a domino on or not, but still trying to focus past the cold metal ring the vigilante is all but drilling between his eyes.

He swallows. “You’ve been off the map for a long time.” He tries to find his eyes in the dark. “This is a wellness check.”

The gun shifts slightly but Dick isn’t stupid enough to think that it’s due to anything other than the pure nonchalance of the vigilante’s ego. “All the way from Blüdhaven?” he hums and the muzzle closes in, pressing hard to his forehead when his words melt into a sneer. “Try again.”

“What are you doing in here?” he challenges instead, testing Jason’s patience.

His reward comes in a stiff and silent package, the ex-hero shifting his weight from foot to foot as he measures his answer. “The Outlaws are taking a break. I thought I’d stop by for a little R-and-R with Little Red and the Spoilsport.” His voice is light and turns in an instant. “Why?” And the gun presses flush on his skin. He isn’t playing this time. He expects an answer—the truth. “Don’t lie to me.”

He speaks around the dry anger he feels at being reduced to another one of Jason’s projects to break down and dissect. But it’s either tell him the truth or let the Bat figure it out himself, written on the wall in his brains. It sticks to his teeth anyway. “There’s been an incident at Arkham. There might be.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” And there’s disbelief on his tongue, incredulity on his lips. The gun is aggressive now, pushing more than he’s willing to give and a dull pain begins on his forehead.

“Jason—“

The vigilante chuckles low in his throat. “I should kill you now.” But he steps back, all the saunter and ego of a lowlife gangster he puts away on a regular night with none of the trademark immaturity. “I should. Then maybe I’ll pay that sorry son of a bitch a lesson that B should’ve taught him _years_ ago.” Then he leans in with a grin so feral and wicked that he leans away, but a thick arm brackets him in.  “You think you can stop me?”

He meets Jason’s toxic gaze steadily, daring him to pull the trigger, to take it that much further. “Are you going to make me?”

The tension is thick in the air, jello slowing the world down and it's the same old Jason. A slow, searing heat, sparking the air between them, igniting words none of them mean, memories neither of them remembers. And it always ends like this: one of them against the wall—except this time, there’s noticeably less blood.

He wins when Jason shoves himself back, dropping the gun into the holster on his hip and he lets go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I don’t know where he is, okay?” His shoulder pivots back when he sneers over his shoulder, shoves his fist into his stomach, returning the earpiece he’d ripped out. “I’ll be out of your damn city when I’m done.”

“What are you talking about?” He makes a grab for his elbow and misses, balance thrown.

“I’ve already checked his other places. Sorry to encroach on your own investigation but you never cared about the kid anyway.”

“Jason.”

Incredulous. “You don’t know.” There’s a sharp bark of laughter but its humorless. It sucks the air out of his lungs and sends it spiraling to the floor. He spits, “You’re unbelievable. All of you, you know that?”

He feels like a broken record. “What happened?”

He shoves him back again and he lets his shoulder hit the wall. “Tim’s missing you fucking shitstain.”

“What do you mean?”

Jay _seethes._ An anger so pure that it has his eyes subconsciously searching for the telltale green hue. “I mean he’s been gone for two weeks. Off the map. _Gone_ . _Hasta la vista.”_

Dick grits his teeth against what are the beginnings of a scathing retort. “What. Happened.”

“Titans.” Then, at his silence, “Never reported back.” The scoff is unexpected but not a surprise. It carries just enough nonchalance to agitate him further, to make him contemplate briefly just how hard he can knock Jason’s hand away without breaking the man’s wrist. “Kid’s living paycheck to paycheck. So, what?” The shrug translates into the feeling of sandpaper frustration on his skin. “He doesn’t cash in and B gets a little twitchy? Exactly how much of that was bullshit?”

“None of it. Bruce sent me to make sure you didn’t run off and kill Joker during the evacuation.” he snaps, nothing but teeth. Then a little more somberly. “I didn’t know about Tim.”

He scoffs again and there’s a harder edge, something more familiar and much less playful. He can deal with harder. “Bullshit. Someone’s gotta keep the rejects in check, right? Don’t want them turning loose.”

“You aren’t rejects.” It’s only irritation that keeps him from further indulging in Jason’s pity party. Dick scowls. As keen as he is to repair things with the estranged Bat, being held at gunpoint on a night like this certainly set them a few steps back. More than a few. “What do you have?”

His eyes flash in the darkness, just for a second and he barks out a dry, patronizing laugh. “Oh no, I don’t fucking think so. How about you take a step back while I find our little brother that you cared enough about in the past two weeks.”

He bites his tongue against his own tirade. “If Tim’s in trouble then we need to find him now.”

His eyes catch in the light now, pupils wide and irises nearly black in the darkness. Barely-there freckles pepper the broad expanse of his nose and cheeks, the same as the last time they’d faced off—if not a lot less bloody. “What’s going on at Arkham?” he asks conversationally, stalking past. His body language is comfortable—familial even— as he maneuvers carefully around Dick, deliberately not turning his back but letting himself relax enough to appear bored. It drives his blood pressure to the roof.

He works his jaw in circles, teeth grinding together to avoid answering before Jay glances back, lips pulled down innocently with eyes that scream danger. It draws the answer off his lips despite himself, as most things with Jason do. “Tachyon energy all over the city. Lots of it.”

“A breach?” he hums. It’s reminiscent of Bruce with a much sweeter edge.

“That’s what it looks like,” he snaps. “They’re evacuating to Blackgate and ICF.”

He snorts. “I-Max won’t know what to do with those freaks.”

“Yeah, tell that to Batman,” Dick bites back. He’s not in the mood for conversation, for banter. Not anymore.

He makes a noncommittal sound, a grunt maybe but it’s too soft to tell. He saunters around the room casually enough that if Dick weren’t a Bat, he wouldn’t even consider the move predatory. But his body language screams aggression, no matter which way he masks it. “Huh. Wally said Timbo was _pretty_ interested in tachyon research the last time he saw him.”

He assumes Jason doesn’t intend to continue when his footsteps stop, expects an outlash instead of the cold green gaze he receives. “He’s been missing for seventeen days.”

It’s as if his world pitches off-kilter, if not for a moment. “Jesus, Timmy.”

He leaves him to lean on his own, deadweight on the counter. Guilt weighs down heavily on his shoulders. Possibilities run through his head, what could’ve happened, where he could be. Admittedly, two weeks wouldn’t usually raise this much suspicion. He’s taken cases himself that lasted well over a month, undercover or otherwise. Tim is older now, his missions don’t run into theirs anymore and he’s running his own team. _One that doesn’t even know where he is._

“The Titans called me last Tuesday,” Jason offers stiffly. “I’ve already hit all his perches, this was the last one.”

Tim’s team. They’re tight-knit like his own team had been. Ever since Red Robin’s leadership, the Teen Titans have been almost completely independent, self-sufficient, and they did good work too. The kept most of the west coast villain free and when they did go global, there isn’t much of anything left for the League to do. But their self-sufficiency stemmed from events not so glorious. And now history is repeating itself.

He fists a hand in his hair, tearing the domino off to throw onto the counter. “Why didn’t they tell us?”

Hood scowls at him, seemingly enjoying the torment laid bare for him. “You know why.” God, he could punch that smirk clear off his face.

But he’s right.

“I didn’t know—“

The smirk falls into a snarl, not letting him spend a second on excuses that he doesn’t deserve to make.“You didn’t _want_ to know.”

Dick is no stranger to shame. _There’s no way you could’ve known. Tim is his own man now. If you didn’t know, then he didn’t want you to know._ But this has happened before. And that wasn’t the case.

 _Pull yourself together, Grayson._ “What have you found?” he asks hotly, pushing his hair back and pressing the adhesive of his domino back into his skin. “Is that a flash drive?”

Jason jerks away, every bit as flighty as their missing bird. “Go work your own case, Wonder Boy. Make sure I don’t blow a fuse or something.”

He makes the decision there. “Screw Arkham. They can handle it.”

The reaction when he gets his fingers in the crook of Jay’s elbow is a punch so quick that he barely has time to dodge it. Knuckles brush his cheek closely enough that he immediately backs off. Jay’s eyes flash and he knows instantly that he’s gone too far. The tension is that of a trapped animal, cornered. He holds his hands in front of him, palms open although he’s sure it does jack shit. “Get off me—“

He tries again, another type of guilt flooding into his stomach. “Jason.”

It takes a long moment for him to stop regarding him like an enemy, for his eyes to lose the primal look of flight or flight. In the end, he’s still pinching Dick’s wrist in one fist. It hurts but he doesn’t dare say a word until he’s relaxing on his own, stiffly releasing him. “Don’t touch me again.” _Ever_ hangs unsaid from his lips but he might as well have screamed it from Wayne Tower because Dick flinches. Their eyes dodge each other for a healthy moment before Jason fiddles with the latches on his gauntlet, frowning deeply. He jerks his head towards the desk reluctantly, letting him follow across the apartment.  “This is it.”

He tries to stop the pounding of his heart, the cold guilt in his gut, and distracting himself is easy because _damn, Tim._

It’s a pretty well-known fact within the family that Tim—as incredible as he is at cracking cases and outsmarting the best, and worst—has virtually no sense of cleanliness. He can’t count the number of paper coffee cups that sit on the desktop, that spill out of the—ironically—half-full wastebasket by his feet. Coffee stains litter the papers he has shuffled around, on the floor, tacked onto the wall with Post-it notes, scotch tape, a band-aid. Half-modified tech litters the workspace; samples, evidence, a vial that _might_ be radioactive leaking onto the carpet—it’s a mess.

He tries to brush away the paperwork to find the keyboard. Jason pulls the desk chair back, frown falling into pure disgust when he reveals a rotten bowl of cereal. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, notably breathing through his mouth. “This place is a fucking toxic waste dump. You’d think he’d have the brains to at least keep this shit in the kitchen.”

He almost laughs. The differences between Tim and Jason’s upbringings have always been glaringly obvious. Tim had grown up like Bruce had, a silver spoon in his cheek and at the top of a corporate ladder he’d never have to climb. His lack of appreciation for the little things stemmed from the same place that Bruce’s did and manifested in a much more tangible way. Jay, on the other hand, had grown up fighting tooth and nail for the most insignificant of things. It shows even now when his fingers twitch, probably stopping himself from going to town on the place.

It only reminds Dick of just how long he’s let himself hide in the dark.

“Let's just get this shit over with.” Jay sneers at the mess for a moment and then swipe a hand across it, sending almost everything to the floor. It makes a noise too hollow, too empty but he leans into the keyboard anyway. While he does, Dick rummages through the files. None of them make sense on their own and it becomes quickly apparent that Tim is not partial to staples or paper clips.

There are maps, pixelated pictures and textured bisected by lines of latitude and longitude. Coordinates are scribbled in what starts off as black ink and then changes to blue, all in the same blocky, uniform handwriting. “These match the ones on the walls,” he muses, holding them up. It looks like a classic “whodunnit” mystery board, straight out of the movies and complete with black marker and string. But it’s not organized—or rather it is. Just in a way he can’t see.

The map in his hand matches a thick group of clippings farther down the wall, centered around a purple, unmarked thumbtack. There are three more, yellow: one back towards the desk, another over his head, and the last one a longer stretch down the wall. They all have different clusters of information around them, from newspaper clippings, academic journals, String-Theory, to basic articles and diagrams on botany and the chemistry of… mutations.

“Hey, Jay?” he calls, still holding up his map to the rest of them. “Is there a projector in here somewhere? Something that would display on this wall.” He struggles with the words, mind moving too fast when Jay cocks his head back impatiently. “Like, a—like a map?”

He blinks then turns back to the terminal he’s cracking. “Just give this a couple more seconds.”

His curiosity gets the best of him. “What is it?” A black flash-drive glows neon blue inside one of the consoles and he can hear the machinery buzzing in response.

“Just a little something the Replacement and I cooked up for a case a while back,” he smirks. The implication goes over his own head but Dick catches it in time to swallow the flinch. Of course, he’d known that Tim and Jason had been closer than the others since Red Hod came back to Gotham, but working cases together? Hanging out together? He feels strangely out of the loop and kicks himself for it. “Alright,” he drawls when the system blinks and returns to the Bat symbol, overlaid with a familiar HUD. “Damn, Timbo. Nice set-up,” Jason coos and he tries to stop the jerk in his knee, impatience burning his throat. His fingers move fast but just before Dick opens his mouth, a light flickers in his peripherals.

The bulb stabilizes inside the projector and casts an image onto the wall beside them, strengthening the longer it runs.

It’s a map. A globe. The tacks all fit into exact places, cities. “Hong Kong, London, New York,” he reads breathily. “What are these?”  There’s a string that connects the three of them, an odd, narrow triangle that slices across the map.

Jason moves next to him, squinting at the display, the fine details, the broad. “No clue.” He moves closer, reads one of the clippings beside New York. “Manhattan, New York, New York.” The sticky note next to it: “High energy. Visit.” He turns his gaze onto him, demanding. “What the hell is in Manhattan?”

He ponders for a moment. “‘High levels.’ You said he’d been asking around about tachyon energy?”

He looks at the wall, then back with a scowl. “If you’re implying that this is on him—”

“No! No, that’s not at all what I’m saying.” Jay’s mouth sets into an unconvinced line and he can’t help but ask. “But is there a flag on Gotham?”

Conflict wars over Jason’s face before he ultimately turns back, moves his shadow out of the way and lets his eyes roam towards Michigan. “Nothing,” he says and stalks back to the computer. _One step forward, seventeen back._  

He analyzes the map again, searching for any sense Tim might’ve seen. Areas of concentrated tachyon energy? Why not include Mt. Justice or Central City? “Kathmandu.” The purple tack. Nowhere near the others, no label and overflowing with charts and maps of thick foliage.  “There’s no location on this one. It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

Jason curses softly and he tries not to ask, coming up behind his shoulder instead. “There’s your research,” he murmurs. Files, downloads, texts, articles, it all piles up in Tim’s hard drive with nonsensical labels that most likely follow some sort of encrypted organization system (because while his apartment is two pizza boxes away from a junkyard, his computers have always been meticulously filed). He switches to a different tab with a pulsing notification. “And looky here.”

His breath catches. “These are Bat files. Chat logs.”

Jason gives an actual bark of laughter, legitimate humor on his tongue and he slaps his shoulder. “With your girlfriend.” He grins in his ear, inputs a keystroke he doesn’t catch and steals back his drive, all in one motion. Does he imagine the cackle, the sharpened teeth? “Welcome home, pretty bird.”

He reaches out to grab him but Jason’s the only Bat other than Bruce himself that can vanish just as silently and suddenly.

The room is empty, window open, no sign of the wayward hero. “Dammit.” Chills run down his skin despite the radiator in the corner nearly howling with the effort to keep up with Gotham’s plummeting temperatures. His stomps over and kicks it, tells himself that it’s because he doesn’t want the building to burn down. In reality, all it does is make him angrier. And his foot hurt.

The notifications still blink innocently on the monitor. Waiting for him.

He finally inserts the earpiece Jason had shoved into his palm. The line is quiet.

He has time.

The controls are much more finicky than the Cave’s, probably tailored specifically for Tim’s swift keystrokes and slender fingers. But he knows the basics of navigating it, one of the final Robin tests. The tab opens with a blink, a standard black and white command shell.

> > CONTINUE SESSION? Y/N

 

Jason’s little hacking technique must work as some kind of worm or trojan because ‘root’ still reads next to the inputs. _Best foot forward, Grayson._

> <root> y
> 
>  
> 
> > ACCESSING INBOX...
> 
> > INCOMING MESSAGES...
> 
> > IDENTIFICATION: root
> 
> > DECRYPTING MESSAGES...
> 
> > OPENING...
> 
>  
> 
> 1/12
> 
> SENDER: oracle
> 
> RECIPIENT: redrobin
> 
> SUBJECT: No Subject
> 
> CONTENT: Ok, so I finally got a hit on the program you sent me (no thanks to you. Maybe call next time). All of them are from sources that are pretty literally off the map but the word “wakanda” kept showing up. I’ve never heard of it—could be a name or a dead language but you probably already know. A lot of it still needs to be translated but one source found this
> 
> _LOAD weirdimg.jpg (211MB)_

He opens the file in the new window, notably more user-friendly than the shell. The image is gritty like it had been passed through countless classifications and censors, from government to government. There’s a language he can't read in the caption but it looks African—or at least without any European or Asian influences. It reminds him of Kryptonian, actually. The numbers he can read well enough, measurements and coordinates in the corners. _A surveillance photo,_ his mind puts together. Taken by a drone. It’s gray and pixelated but he can easily interpret the image of treetops, foliage. There are consistent breaks in the leaves, pathlike, an everchanging altitude with a number of rocky outcrops and clearings.

And in the corner, almost lost in the shadowy pixels, is a line, dotted but clear. _People._

> 2/12
> 
> SENDER: oracle
> 
> RECIPIENT: redrobin
> 
> SUBJECT: update
> 
> CONTENT: Got some free time and I managed to find something else. Check this: British archaeologist Emily Blaccard was surveying with a team in the Ilemi Triangle, an area untouched land between Kenya and South Sudan for the past century until Blaccard’s team got caught in a border dispute in 2004. From there, Blaccard and the team falls off the map. No casualties reported, no bodies recovered. Location lines up with our mystery map. Care to go spelunking?

_The purple tack._

> 3/12
> 
> SENDER: oracle
> 
> RECIPIENT: redrobin
> 
> SUBJECT: RE: update
> 
> CONTENT: so Wakanda was a place. Found some of Blaccard’s field notes uploaded to a Cambridge Cloud server. According to Blaccard, the Triangle is the impact site of an ancient meteorite that allegedly dated back millennia. apparently she’d been trying to get funds to establish a dig site in the Ilemi for years but kept getting rejected because of the high radioactivity from South Sudanese nuclear waste. but get this: I looked into the state’s official reports for nuclear waste and they aren’t generating anything even close to the amount that Blaccard’s last field report notes. fishy? still don’t know what you’re looking for. be careful. here are the reports
> 
> _LOAD blaccardNotes.zip (310MB)_

He doesn’t stop to unzip it. The more he reads, the more his anger starts to rise. At Tim’s increasingly complicated situation, the danger he might be in, Barbara’s involvement. Does she know that Tim’s missing? Was she the one who sent him away?

> > LOAD MORE? Y/N
> 
>  
> 
> <root>

The sudden window that opens on the screen isn’t a list of email. It’s red, on top of all the others and it startles him so intensely that he hits his knee on the edge of the desk. He hisses a curse before he actually reads it.

> ALERT — DESIGNATION ALPHA — REASON: TACHYON ACTIVITY SECTOR K-14

“What the fuck?” he breathes. He tries to click off of it, minimize the window, anything to make it go away but nothing works. “Alpha? What does that mean?” _Sector K-14?_

Tachyon activity.

_Shit._

His comm was off.

He fumbles to turn it back on, turning off the projector and deciding to just unplug Tim’s entire system. Barbara’s panicked, level voice comes through too loud just as he makes it to the window. _“—just spiked, tenfold. Are you still at Arkham?”_

Batman responds instantly, all grit and tense concern. _“I’m with Gordon now. Report.”_

He fiddles with it for the last time, adjusting the volume and unmuting himself. “Nightwing. I’m at Red Robin’s place. What happened?”

 _“This is Robin,”_ Damian chimes in. He uses an annoyed anger to hide his worry. _“ I’m at the cave.”_

It takes Dick a moment to realize that they’re missing someone, an empty pocket of sound that falls flat in his ribcage. _“Spoiler.”_ Bruce’s voice is just as tense, a beat before he growls with a tighter scrape in his throat. _“Spoiler?”_

Her comm crackles to life when she unmutes it and Dick visibly relaxes, hands gripping the windowsill before he can finally ease it open. _“Yeah, sorry. Evacuating now. Forget the cuffs on these ones, just get them on the bus—not that one, dumbass!”_ They can’t hear any of the commotion she must be fighting through, wouldn’t even be able to tell that she was around people if she wasn’t cussing them out on mic.

 _“B, she’s gotta get out of there now.”_ The mic crackles again. It has to be a connectivity thing. _Tachyon energy over Gotham._

He can count on one hand the number of times that Bruce has listened to one of them without even a second of hesitance and this happens to be one of those times. _“Spoiler, fall back now.”_

_“I’m not leaving until these patients are safe.”_

He nearly blows his comm out when he barks. It’s a voice that he’s only heard when things go _south._ The _Where is Jason?_ voice, the _Listen to Me,_ voice. _“That’s an order!”_

She’s panting, running maybe and he can hear footsteps in her voice, pounding in time with his heart. _“There are officers in there—“_

Bruce again. _“I’m on my way to you. Spoiler, get clear of the building.”_ No one dares to breathe, waiting for the outspoken vigilante to respond. His fists start to ache and Bruce says it first. _“Stephanie!”_

_Rule One: No names in the field._

Her voice is uneven, volume inconsistent on the line and he isn’t sure if it's interference or something else. Her breath is light and labored. _“Okay, I’m—“_

The explosion rocks the entire building.

Glass shatters, someone screams.

Even half a city away, he swears he can hear the concrete shattering, feel the heat blast across his face and sear his cheeks. He swears he can smell fire on his skin, ozone in the air.

And he can see it.

He can see the fire just under the horizon, the hue of angry orange it splashes onto the alleys, the cloud of smoke blending into the smog—the sky.

“Oh, God.”

The handful of people on the street below look around wildly. Someone inside their apartment screams and the car alarms shriek along the road. But aside from that, it’s completely quiet. Deafening.

The world falls from under his feet.

Barbara stammers into the comms. _“Oh, my God.”_ His mouth is dry. He can’t—he can’t hear the city anymore. It’s quiet. _“B, she—she was in the_ sublevels—“

Bruce’s voice comes in stiff. Dry. Panicking. _“Contact fire and rescue. Tell them there’s been an explosion at the Asylum.”_

He’s moving before Bruce is even finished giving the order, tearing across Tim’s apartment, cursing when the window sticks. He shouldn’t have bothered because the instant he’s out on the fire escape his shoulders slam into the brick. The metalwork clangs loudly and he gasps at the roughness, hands coming up to brace the armored wrist pressing his neck into the wall.

Dimly, he recognizes the smell of cigarettes and hickory.

“Hood—“

The arm presses harder into his trachea and the outline of Jason’s helmet blurs. “Who’s there?”

He manages to choke out the name, panic overcoming his anger. He shoves Jason off, more because the man lets him rather than his own strength. “Stephanie was inside. We have to go!”

There’s a pause that he’s positive is shock, then his shoulders slam hard against the brick again. “You left her there?!”

“I—”

There’s a flash of emotions that he _feels_ rather than sees radiating off of him but he’s far too gone to care. This time, he hears his rage-filled voice in the comms. _“Where?”_

If Barbara is confused at all about how Jason seamlessly connected into the network, she doesn’t voice it, instead answering so quickly she almost cuts him off. _“North wing. B3.”_ Her voice shakes, _“Readings just spiked again. I’m on my—“_

He nearly snarls and Dick is reminded again just how much more Jason takes after Bruce than the rest of them, no matter how much he denies it. “Stay where you are and keep Robin there.”

She growls back with the same venom-laced fear. _“I’m not—“_

“I said _stay,_ Gordon!”

Jason leaps off the escape first but eventually, he’s the one struggling to keep up with Dick. They’re the farthest away from the Asylum, Bruce will get there first but his heart still rises in his throat. The last time he’d crossed the city this fast had been when Damian had gotten a syringe full of concentrated fear toxin straight from Scarecrow’s lab. He’d been finishing up patrol at the GCPD headquarters when Duke had called him, crying. Bruce had dragged Damian into the cave, shouting, demanding for Alfred and the latest antidote.

The life they lead has an intimate relationship with death, and some of them know that more personally than others. But so far, they’ve all come back for the most part.

He doesn’t want this to be a first. Not Stephanie.

They’d met when Tim wore the R. A chance meeting that ended with him dragging her and her broken leg to the cave, and finding out that Bruce had known. Had known about the purple vigilante working in his city, taking on threats she had no chance against, and _chosen_ to leave her untrained. _Not my business,_ he’d settled curtly, but he spoke to her anyway, told her to throw away the cowl, throw away Spoiler and get out while she could. All because he asked.

And she did.

Until he ran into her again half a year later. Dick doesn’t know the specifics, just that Bruce had fallen into one of Riddler’s traps and it had been Stephanie to pull him out alive.

He taught her how to throw a batarang, to get into the cave safely, to maintain her identity as Stephanie Brown, to establish a patrol route.

He taught her how to swing.

He can smell the smoke before they even cross into the Narrows. Like ozone and burnt plastic. “Where are we going through?” Jason yells over the wind when they pause on the same rooftop they’d congregated on not forty minutes ago. He races to the precipice he’d last seen Stephanie leap from but he’s not ready for the sight beyond.

Half the compound is smoking on the ground, a mass of rubble two-stories high. Sirens rip the night in half, but not quite as violently as the fumes of dust and soot. He can see steel and rebar from here, shattered glass and gray cinderblock. Somewhere he realizes that he’s moving automatically, that he can’t really hear anything anymore. He doesn’t know how long he stares at Jason’s helmet before putting together that he won’t hear any words, or read any lips. Somehow his body moves without him, responding to whatever _someone_ says, following Jason towards the bridge, one block away, numb the whole way. _Gotham is burning._

They’re tearing through the streets until there’s nothing left to swing on. GCPD has already started blocking the road, ambulances lines haphazardly along the sidewalk. Officers, inmates, civilians—people are just streaming out with soot-scarred faces. They’re crying, gasping. Some are laughing and some aren’t even moving. It’s hell. _Burning._

He hears Gordon’s voice over the silence but can’t piece the words together. He and Jason yell back and forth but it’s not banter. _He’s already inside!_ The commissioner waves them to a break in the fence, tells them to go. Tells them to run.

His hearing comes back when they run up to a break in the wall that’s streaming black smoke.  

“Through here. It opens up!” he yells over the flames, already covering his mouth.

It’s dark and hot and the ceiling keeps crumbling. _Sublevels. She was in the sublevels, B. Keep going down. Down._

The smoke thins slowly. The fire is upstairs but they’re not safe down here. His eyes water and he coughs. Jason tears off his helmet, throws it somewhere in the crumbled concrete, eyes streaming and lungs heaving. “We gotta find her,” he gasps. Dick nods vehemently, not bothering to answer outside of sprinting down the hall.

He does notice with a jolt, however, that these halls are clear. Whoever Stephanie had been evacuating from this level had at least made it somewhere topside before— _what the hell happened?_

Arkham’s underground is like a maze. There are dark stretches interrupted by flickering fluorescents, walls smooth and featureless. Barbara’s voice is nothing but static now and Dick isn’t even sure they're going the right way until he trips, Jay catching him on the way down.

His lungs are on  _fire._ His vision wavers before he catches his breath and immediately uses it. “Spoiler! Sp—“

Jason’s glove finds a home on his tongue when the hero shushes him, eyes bright and wide with tears. There’s soot in his hair, on his cheeks. He wants to wipe it away. “Wait. Listen.”

It takes him a moment to parse through all the pounding and thick quiet in his head but he does. He hears the building groaning, the sound of thunder and cracking ice, the fire.

He hears a scream.

It’s a large room—probably storage he realizes thickly. It’s warehouse-like, complete with the concrete supports, thick beams in a uniform grid throughout, ductwork naked along the ceiling. And he can see them through the gaps when Jason shoves him back, stopping him from running into the open full tilt.  

“Let her go.” Batman’s voice is almost lost completely in the sounds of Arkham’s agony but it carries anyways, sending liquid relief straight into his veins.

He stands behind a far pillar, half blocked but clear enough for the boys to see his cautious stance, exactly where he’s angled. Exactly where Spoiler must be.

Underneath a slab of concrete with a blade to her neck.

“This is new,” comes a regal voice. It’s fluid and unnatural, seemingly carrying every accent and none, every dialect, the sound changing as it travels from his ears to his brain. There’s only one constant: _danger._ “There really is no escaping you hero types, is there?” There’s a scraping noise and whimper so painfully familiar that anger bubbles in his blood. “Tell him what I want, girl.”

Jason taps his shoulder, makes a complicated motion with his fingers. _Left. You go right._

He makes it to the first pillar just as the scream tips through the air. It scrapes the walls of her throat, guttural, choking on something wet. “No—don’t—“

He squeezes his eyes shut until an eternity passes and he can hear her gasping instead, sobbing. His heart aches and burns at the same time. _Hold on, Steph. We’re coming._

“Tell me what you want.”

Bruce’s growl allows him two more, almost completely flanked. He can see her now: Stephanie.

An hour ago they were smiling. Now her armor is broken, cloak shredded and torn and burned. Half her head is crimson and matted wet. One leg is hidden under rubble, the other trembling, impaled by a wicked looking lance.

She’s regal. She’s powerful and ruthless, he can see that just in the way she braces the weapon against Stephanie’s writhing body. She doesn’t glance down for a second, completely uncaring, detached.

She’s a warrior.  

“I want the cube. I can smell it on you, human.”

Batman bluffs flawlessly and if he didn’t know any better then he’d wholeheartedly believe that Bruce actually knew what the fuck he was talking about. “Let her go and I’ll give it to you.”

He makes it one closer, missing her reaction. It wasn’t a laugh. He can’t read the emotion without the visual, it’s too _fluid._ He can see the sound on the back of his eyelids, dancing into comprehension. It’s yellow. Tastes like annoyance. Impatience. “I’ve made gods of lies speak truths. You think you can fool me?” There’s the sound of stone shifting, sliding against itself. He doesn’t know what happens but it ends with the sound of meat tearing.

Stephanie cries, screaming with full lungs until it ends in an abrupt hiccup. She doesn’t even try to speak anymore, silent.

“So materialistic. Replaceable. _Expendable,”_ the voice sneers. It’s orange and heavy like his fury. Adrenaline courses through his veins. “Tell me where the cube is and I’ll spare her. I’ll make sure he spares you.”

_He. He who sent her. He who did this._

“Who spares me?” Bruce growls.

“Your maker,” she chuckles. He’s sure of it. _“Thanos.”_

There’s an explosion of movement when he calls it, Hood tearing out of the shadows opposite him, Batman lunging for the woman between them.

She throws Steph to the side, swinging the lance smoothly up to catch Hood in the ribs and it shatters his armor in one move. “Oh, I do love it when they fight,” she smirks. Then she’s locked in battle with the Bat.  

They don’t waste time, even as Jay gasps for breath, in pain. They fall beside Steph’s crumpled body, struggling to sit up, crying the whole way.

“Jay?” she stammers, violently kicking out with her good leg, lashing towards them with a good arm that he catches gently in his hand “Dick?”

Jason nods, already cataloging the multiple wounds on her small body. “I’m here, baby girl. Just hold on.”

He smiles the best he can at her, the teeth, the dimples reflecting in glassy eyes. “Hey, birdie. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

Most of the meat on her shoulder is gone and Jay immediately holds her head so that she can’t turn to look at it. Her left thigh looks about the same, chewed up and gnawed on. The blood is dark and almost purple.

Not the purple he wants to see her in.

There’s another gouge in her stomach, virtually pouring blood whenever she moves and, _God,_ there’s so _much_ of it. The smell of copper is so strong that he gags and he can see Jason pale.

One of her irises is almost all black.

She rambles while Jason shrugs off his jacket, keeping a hand on her chin. “Why are you here? You’re not supposed to be here. Dick was supposed to keep you away—he’s here, you have to leave—” She coughs and then vomits. More blood.

And she sees it. The pool. The growing ocean.

Behind them, Batman grunts loudly. He doesn’t dare look away, just mutters for Jason to hurry.

For once he doesn’t argue, just instructs him to hold Stephanie still while he maneuvers his jacket over the bleeding in her stomach, the worst of it.

He talks while he works. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Hold on, I’m going to get you out of here, okay? Look at me.”

She starts to cry, face crumpling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“

He hushes her tears, her cries when he gets his arm under her legs. “I know, I’ve got you.”

“Hood! Get her out of here!”

And he’s turning back to cover them.

The woman cocks her head, Batman at her feet struggling to get up. He takes out his escrima sticks. “Let’s dance, lady,” he taunts, begging her to pay attention to him, to fight him.

But she’s only got eyes for Jason who’s running back the way they came, Stephanie in his arms. She whispers, a low and triumphant sound: _purple._ “Run, child. You have already been saved.”

“No—”

The energy that shoots out of the staff’s end is a blinding white, cutting through the concrete supports, through the air with impossible speed.

But he sees it when it hits them. Under his shoulder, straight through.

They go down like a ton of bricks.

He doesn’t even register that she’s gone. Neither does Bruce because he screams first.  

“Hood! Spoiler!”

The world is like jello, and time is thicker than tar. He watches Jason fall in slow motion, watches her come apart in his arms.

_Gotham is burning._

Vaguely, Barbara’s voice feeds back in. She’s crying and his own cheeks are slick. _“What happened?”_ She nearly screams when Bruce doesn’t answer, a statue next to Jason… next to Steph. He can’t breathe. He can’t _fucking breathe and it’s all coming out._ He vomits right there, everything and more in his stomach all on the floor and he can’t pull himself together. He’s dry heaving on the ground, next to Jason, next to Stephanie. They need first-aid. They need a doctor. _“Bruce, what happened?”_

_Gotham is burning._

“Assemble the League.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna be honest, not sure how I feel about the ending of this chapter. Speed picks up next chapter, /rosemary. Wonder what Steve's been up to...


	3. /rosemary_1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what Zemo reduced them to: strangers that haunted each other’s nightmares.

_“Moving to position delta.”_

He knows it’s a trap the second they’re out of Clint’s line of sight.

It’s an instinct forged before the war, before the serum, the draft. Back when Bucky had to drag him out of the alleys every other night. New York was a scary place when the sun went down and he’d had a good nose for trouble. He still does.

He motions behind his back, waiting until Sam taps his shoulder to keep moving forward.

Natasha should be upstairs by now, silently clearing the floor above their heads.

It’s a corporate building. The reception desk had gathered heavy layers of dust underneath the impressive stockpile of ammunition. File cabinets line the boarded windows and a dirty mattress borders the wall. Hundreds of exposed needles and syringes litter the floor. He lets Sam train his gun on the doorway while he kneels next to the filthy blankets. Among the plethora of stains are patches of blood—small enough to go unnoticed to anyone who failed to look too close. Strands of hair catch his eye, clinging to the off-white pattern and seams.

Long. Brown. A woman’s.

“Sam,” he calls lowly. He balances the evidence between two gloved fingers and holds it up to the light for the veteran to catch.

The pilot’s eyes widen and he shakes his head.

The creep out into the bare hallway, no floor, no paint on the walls, no furniture. There are dirty boot-prints on the concrete, mud and grass leaving crooked patterns in the tread.

“Clear,” Sam whispers, scanning the room to the left. He moves into the right.

Empty, just like the rest—save for the plethora of empty syringes and beer bottles, some with broken ends. Ratty curtains don’t do much to the sunlight that filters through the filthy glass. It’s smeared with fingerprints. He swings his gun around. The door is bloody with scratches.

“Wilson.”

It’s a lot of blood.

Sam is silent when he comes in behind, takes in the room in all of five seconds. He nods to the far wall: a closet. _Like clockwork, like breathing._

Sam moves to the side, gun trained in one hand, the other ready to tear the doorknob back. Steve brings up the sight.

Nods.

She’s screaming before the door is all the way open.

He tucks the gun into the holster under his arm, already kneeling forward with open arms. _“Ça va,”_ he murmurs into her hair when she launches herself into his arms. She barely weighs anything compared to all his gear and she smells like urine and sex. Deep in his stomach, there’s rage. _“Tu es en sécurité maintenant.”_

Sam peeks into the closet. He turns back, shakes his head and holds two fingers up.

_Too late._

She sobs into his neck when Nat comes over the line. _“Clear.”_ Then, with an emotionless edge, _“No survivors.”_

His hand hits something wet and ragged in the girl’s thigh when he hoists her up on his hip and she cries harder. “We’ve got one.” He peels back the soaked, ragged sundress back, nodding to Sam. The former pararescueman clenches his jaw at the sight, swollen and festering, still throbbing with broken glass.

He sees his fury mirrored in Sam’s eyes, the untapped rage lending them a deep amber glow. “Two dead,” he says into the comm. “Where the hell is Pérez?”

_“No sign. He must’ve been tipped off.”_

_“Bordeaux.”_ Barton’s growl is a low buzz in his ears. _“We shouldn’t have let her go.”_

The girl lifts her head and her sweat forehead leaves a dampness on his cheek. She jerks her leg from Sam’s gentle fingers with a whimper.

“We have to—“

The building shakes then, gunfire erupting upstairs. Fast bubblegum pops peppered with rapid-fire cracks light up the silence. The child shrieks into his shoulder, sobs wracking her entire body.

“Natasha!”

_“Four on the roof, 260. Two semis, two shotguns. At least three inside entered from the west side—fuck! They knew where I was.”_

_Trap._

“Hide in the closet,” he barks at Sam, passing the child to the veteran. She clings to him while he coos at her, ducking back behind the door.

He takes the stairs two at a time.

The soldier is clad in black: private military. He’s got his gun trained on Steve before he even turns the corner.

Sparks erupt on the metal railing by his ear, bullets flying past into the concrete walls, exploding into white dust. He ducks back down the stairs and calls it: “North stairwell, second landing!”

No sooner than two seconds does he hear the familiar crack of a rifle report and a heavy _thnick!_ when the bullet pierces armor and muscle alike.

He swings up, catching the barrel in one hand. His other fist cracks against the soldier’s jaw, and again when he breaks his nose. He knees his stomach and slams his head into the railing in one move, all before he has time to scream.

More gunfire rains from down the hall. The bullets slam into the soldier's backside, catching his allies’ fire long enough for him to get his hand around his sidearm.

Two in the doorways, on at the end of the hall.

He gets under the deadweight shoulder and clips the side of one soldier’s helmet. He stumbles back and trips.

The other catches two in the plates and one in the neck.

Then one hits home in his side. Another in his knee.

He falls underneath the weight of his human shield, pain erupting and shooting through his bones. _“Fuck,”_ he hisses. He’s taken bullets before but he can feel this one grating against his bone every time he moves. His vision pulses white with every breath.

But he’s still got his finger on the trigger.

It goes straight through his face, out into the wall. Gore paints the concrete red.

He shoves the body off him, breathing shallowly, gritting his teeth when he stands. The pain shoots up from his heel and into his hips to meet the other bullet, lodged somewhere cozy next to his lower ribs.

He’ll heal, but the serum does nothing for pain.

He stumbles into the next room with his gun raised to another soldier’s head, mid-turn around.

They go down with a bullet in their brain. He manages another breath before a rifle stock knocks against the base of his skull. Had he been completely human, it may have killed him. Instead, he turns on his heel, clocking him across the face so hard that _something_ cracks. He pulls the grunt back in by his collar, shoves the gun into his stomach and pulls twice.

There’s a wet noise behind him and he spins, already primed again.

Natasha’s got blood in her hair, and there’s a cut across her cheek but she’s breathing.

“Good job,” he pants after a moment, dropping his arm.

She has to catch her breath too, adrenaline still pumping her veins full of energy. “You too, old man.”

He’s too hurt to laugh, but he grants her a short-lived smile before it’s torn away from his lips.

_“Wilson!”_

“What?”

_“I can’t get a clear shot—“_

He doesn’t trip once down the stairs, reloading as he goes. He kicks the door down before Nat’s even ready, pain subsiding into nothingness it favor of bitter dread. It crashes open to Pérez’s smug face, grinning with a gun to Sam’s head, the little girl screaming on the ground.

He makes a mistake.

A bulk of muscle tackles him to the side as soon as he clears the doorframe and they crash into the floor. He’s fighting as they go down, getting the gun in between them but then there’s something in his neck.

_Syringe._

He pulls the trigger.

Coldness plunges into his bloodstream.

Pérez’s head snaps back.

He can’t breathe.  
  
The tiny package falls from his hand, rolling at their feet.

Deadweight crushes his shriveling lungs before he can shove him off. He lunges for the girl, knowing full well that he won’t be able to make it clear of the blast. Instead, he throws the little girl in his arms towards the door, shouts at her to run before it slams him into the far wall.  
  
There’s no smell, no shrapnel, nothing except the painful ringing in his ears and the dull ache beginning in his body.

He has to move, has to run. He tries to finger his earpiece, contact the team and tell them to fall back but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out.  
  
His muscles give out and he collapses the rest of the way to the ground, knocking his chin into his jaw. Panic sets in quickly when he realizes he can’t move. His fingers tremble on their own, unresponsive to his commands. He tries to shout, scream but he can’t get the air into his lungs.  
  
He can’t breathe.  
  
_“Cap! Hold on!”_  
  
“G—“ he can’t form the words he needs to, to tell Sam to run, to rendezvous at the safe house with Barton and Natasha. They stick in his throat and he starts to convulse.  
  
There’s something very wrong. He’s supposed to be able to metabolize this kind of stuff, to be immune.  
  
His chest seizes and his heart is hit with the first stabbing pain.

He feels like he’s dying.  
  
How does asphyxiation work? Choking, brain damage. No oxygen to the brain. The serum won’t save him from that.  
  
He hopes the girl got away in time.  
  
_“Wilson! We gotta go!”_  
_  
_ “We’re not leaving without him!”

 _“Hold on!”_  
  
There are popping noises, short bursts of happy gunfire in the back of his mind. It’s the only thing he can focus on when his body heaves again.  
  
Something dark comes over him, something noisy that he can’t hear. He tries to speak, to fight back. Where’s his shield? Where’s his team? _Call it, Cap._  
  
The horizon shifts and he’s upright. It’s harder to breathe like this and his knees won’t cooperate. It’s fine. He won’t be taken.  
  
_“Call out patterns and strays. Anything gets past three blocks, you turn it back or you turn it to ash.”_  
  
Something catches him before he falls again but he can’t for the life of him get his feet to work.  
  
This time when he collapses he doesn’t get back up. There’s something like concrete under his cheek, knocking his teeth together whenever his chest convulses again, lungs screaming, begging for air that he can’t give. Darkness crawls around the edges of his vision, eyes rolling back.  
  
“I need a perimeter as far back as 39th.”

Something sharp pierces his leg but he can’t even gather the breath to react, just catalogs the pain to process later. It hurts, so much. He’d kill to make it go away. He’d die.

_“Sometimes, I wanna punch you in your perfect teeth.”_

It’s a dark room. There are no windows, no lights. But there’s a biting wind snapping at his nose, his fingers. It’s pitch black but somehow he can see Tony standing in front of him in the broken Mark 46.

He runs his tongue over them, and just as he says: they’re perfect. When he smiles there’s agony in his jaw. Dull pain rips from his face down his neck and into his shoulders. He tries to feel his teeth again, to probe around but there’s nothing. His tongue hits sensitive gums and copper floods into his mouth. In front of him, Tony frowns. He starts to cry out but hot blood hits the back of his throat. Tony steps forwards, furious tears in his eyes. His hair is mussed and there’s red in it. His nose is broken, a nasty cut above his eye. He shoves his thumb into his mouth and it tastes like salt; bitter granules of dirt and steel. When he digs the digit into Steve’s gums, he screams. Tony smiles; there are two rows of teeth. _“Wouldn’t wanna break up the set.”_ It’s Steve’s voice coming from of the genius’s lips.

The scream that rips out of Tony’s mouth when he convulses and throws his body backward isn’t his own—or the dream’s. Instead, Steve jackknifes awake, eyes flung wide in the dark.

His hands fumble with the lamp on the nightstand, managing to knock over his glass and sketchbook. He hardly acknowledges the sharp shatter, exhaling shakily when light floods the room. Then it catches in his throat.

Bucky stands at the end of the bed, a wicked grin on his bloody lips, frost from cryosleep still wild on his skin. In one metal hand, he holds the arc reactor, still glowing, crimson this time. In the other, he holds something darker. It convulses rapidly, an odd shape in his palm, dripping onto the tile with wet little _pats._ The smile is venomous. He prowls closer, around the far side of the bed until Steve can see what he’s holding.

_“Ya gotov otvechat.”_

He can’t move his feet, can’t speak, just watch as Bucky crushes Tony.

The scene changes again and he’s sitting on Iron Man’s chest. The shield slices his palms through his gloves, carving ribbons out of muscle and bone. He brings it down on the reactor and something cracks. Something organic.

Dread fills his stomach until he’s lightheaded. He tears the shield away— _throws_ it as far as possible, hands shaking. “Tony—no—“

The genius gasps, blood welling up behind his lips and spilling down his jaw. _I killed him._

“Oh, my God, Tony. No,” he chokes out. But he just heaves, blood erupting from his mouth as he tries to breathe. His tears are red but his eyes are still brown. Still wide and warm.

Still furious.

He feels the repulsor flush against his skull and for a half second, he doesn’t fight it.

_“You chose your side.”_

That hand is real.

He catches a muscled wrist and the twist he administers draws out a painful cry from its owner. “You dumbass! It's me!”

A halfhearted punch lands on his head before he opens his eyes to a colder, grayer, angrier pair. “Tony—“ is all he manages to get out before the bout of coughs hits him hard.

“Easy, Cap. That shit hit you hard. You’re not just gonna bounce back from this one.”

The water burns so bad his eyes water but he drinks it anyway. “Th’hell happened?” he mutters. His body hasn’t felt this beat up in a very long time. Everything feels muddled, too slow, too hard. Breathing still takes more effort than he’d like, and he feels like his mind is working too slow.

Barton takes point by Steve’s feet. He notes the bandage on his shoulder, the one still red with fresh blood. “You were roofied, boss.” It sounds light, teasing, but the man’s eyebrows are furrowed. His gaze works across Steve’s face, probing until he has to look away. “Some kinda cocktail meant specifically for you.”

“The serum.” His voice is scratched to hell. “Why didn’t it work?”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Was hoping you’d be able to tell us that.” He watches him for a moment longer before reaching into a pocket on his vest, producing a burner cell that he flips open for a quick moment. “Wilson’s got a theory.”

He coughs again, unable to get the scratch out of his throat. It tastes bad, something that he can’t place with his mind so muddled. His head hits the backboard with a sigh, finally allowing himself to scan the room.

It’s unfamiliar. Not the original safehouse they’d established before the mission went bad. He thinks they’re in the countryside or somewhere like it because he can’t hear any cars, only cicadas and crickets. It must be their back-up. Or was it the back-up’s back-up? Who cares. It sighs the smell of softwood and dust, and faintly of alcohol and gunmetal. It’s dark, curtains pulled shut so that only a sliver of the red sunlight creeps in and it’s hot. It’s stuffy, so much that it reminds him of nights in tents with Natasha when the mission called for it. He imagines it reminds Clint and Sam of the same: of sand in their boots and between their teeth, the Afghan sun and blocked out abandoned homes. Something tugs urgent on his mind.

“Sam? Natasha?”

Clint nods, almost looks relieved. “Making sure we weren’t followed.” He flips the phone open and shut and Steve finally notices the nest that the sniper has set up in the window, rifle resting on the sill, barrel hidden in the curtains. The phone clicks with each snap of his wrist. “Tasha’s sleeping downstairs. I shouldn’t leave her for too long.” Then, “It took a long time to shake them loose.”

Right. The mission. Leo Pérez. Drug lord and gangster nearly untouchable by the law, and high on Interpol’s latest priorities. A human-trafficking ring they’d tracked into Lyon after a slew of civilian abductions in Paris and Monaco. Highly trained, private military Steve had suspected. Their hands were deep in human experimentation. They must’ve been expecting them. He runs over the plan mentally, choreographs the fight, tries to figure out where it all went wrong. His head hurts.

“Did we get them?” he asks, scalp scraping against the wood. He’s sweating, even with his chest bared. Barton’s eyes are bright gray.

“Pérez is just the beginning,” and he looks down. Steve’s throat tightens on its own as the sharpshooter’s eyes darken, thoughts almost loud enough for him to hear. “He’s got a whole operation in the EU. Underdogs, followers—someone will take his place. Scattered ‘em to hell though. They won’t be hitting anywhere but hospitals for a while. Already tipped off Interpol. They should be watching regional hospitals for the next few days.”

Images flash in his mind: the Jeep, popping the back tire when bullets pepper the back window, Sam leaning over him in the back seat, shooting with one hand, stabilizing his head with the other. He wonders if they’re memories or his imagination.

“Dead?”

He shrugs. “Can’t know for sure until the feds file the reports. I can confirm two.” The phone catches. “Had to take out the driver.” He chuckles dryly. “Your boy is a shit shot, you know that?”

“What happened?” he asks after a moment, head slowly clearing. He just needs Barton to keep talking.

He does. “What do you remember?”

A pause. “Ambushed. Pérez had Sam. Had a grenade. The girl—is she okay?”

Clint nods after a moment. “Tasha got her out. Wilson didn’t see anyone else.” He stands, stalks over to the far wall and a water bottle comes flying at his head. “What he did see,” he barely manages to catch it before it hits him in the face, “was you.” Clint crosses his arms. “Lyin’ on the ground. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t walk. You eating bricks, Cap?”

That cracks a smile, a thin one, but real before it’s gone. “I don’t know.”

The assassin looks at his feet, then the window. “It was my fault.”

Before Siberia, he’d never really been close to Clint. In the beginning, they’d all had trouble trusting him thanks to Loki and the scepter but the street went both ways. Eventually, they’d opened up to each other and Barton became the beacon of light in a dark room with his dry, witty humor and almost childlike antics. The archer never failed to pry a laugh out of the coldest and stoniest hearts. But they all have their demons.

“Barton, don’t.”

He glares at him, an icy gray thing that has his shivering. “It was. I should’ve been watching closer.” He looks at the curtains, pulled tight around his perch. “It’s my job to keep you guys safe while you're in there.” He regards Steve blankly. “And look what you got for it.”

He moves his legs over the side of the bed, managing to keep his mouth shut against the pain still shooting up his body. “People get hurt in this life. You know this better than anyone.” If he was anyone else, he’d flinch. Right now he looks as if he’d rather turn off his hearing aid and jump out of the window. But he doesn’t. “Back in the war, Bucky was our sharpshooter.” He looks at him now. “He didn’t always have the shot but he always had my back. I trust your instincts and I trust your skills, Clint. Even if it’s wrong, you’ll make the call to keep your friends safe. And that’s more than anyone can ask for these days.”

He’s silent before he stalks to the window, kneeling by his set-up to scan the horizon, a slow measured movement that Steve only barely picks up in the dark. Sunlight splashes through the glass, ignites the wisps of ash blond in the sniper’s hair. He turns back after a few minutes. “You’re just lucky Wilson’s pararescue,” he scoffs. “I have no clue how to handle neurotoxins.”

He places a hand on Clint’s arm, stopping him from helping him to his feet so his brain can catch up. “Hold on, neurotoxin?”

The assassin lets him fall back into the bed and sits beside him, elbows bracing his knees. He’s shed his uniform, traded it for a familiar hoodie he’s seen Nat and Tony wear on multiple occasions before… _that._ It’s wrinkled and there’s a dark stain over his left shoulder where the bandages peek over his trapezius. Flecks of red seep through the gauze but if it affects the man in any way, he never shows it. “Wilson’s theory. You ever seen sarin, Cap?”

He’s read about it. Catching up on seventy years hadn’t just consisted of cool sci-fi movies and odd slang. The world turned on without him. The end of the war. Vietnam. Korea. Afghanistan. Iraq. New weapons seemed to keep popping up as the culprit to civilian casualties. Agent Orange, napalm, and the infamous nuclear warhead. ‘Sarin’ pulls at his memory but doesn’t stick. “Heard of it.”

His tongue tastes like fluoride of all things.

Clint doesn’t say anything for a moment, wringing his hands. They make a rough scraping noise against each other, decades of calluses built up over time. “Nat was hit once.” He smiles bitterly. “The only time that I wasn’t a hundred percent sure she’d make it.” He imagines Natasha, always so composed and untouched by the chaos she surrounds herself with, writhing and gasping like he’d been. Unable to breathe or speak in a matter of seconds. His mouth is dry. “It’s outlawed almost globally, they use it for bioterrorism, but this cell didn’t use it to attack innocents. Traffickers don’t use sarin. They use Rohypnol and chloroform. Heroin, morphine, they don’t want to attract attention but they went out of their way to target you.”

He narrows his eyes, following closely as his head clears. “What do you mean?”

“If they wanted to kill you, why risk getting up close? Why bother? Traditionally this stuff is used in an aerated state. Why not just dose all of us?”

“Because you’re not the test subjects.”

Clint watches him while he processes. “Someone set them up. Promised them something if they could get close to you.”

“So they knew we were coming.”

“And now they know it works.”

“I’m the only super soldier.”

“Yeah. You and Barnes.”

“You think they’re after Buck?”

Clint just looks at him for a very long time before he pats his leg. “I think we haven’t seen the last of these guys.”

He dreams of gunfire. Hot and loud in his ears, explosions of sound that mute everything else. The worst part is that he knows it’s a dream. He can feel the sheets tangling around his ankles, the gun under the pillow. He knows he’s dreaming but he can’t wake up.

It’s the same one that comes back to haunt him every other night: Siberia.

Bucky screams deep in the compound, haunting while they wipe his memory over and over. He’s so close, just out of reach, fingers brushing the door when an iron glove yanks him back. The steel fingers sear the back of his neck and for a split second, they pinch the delicate skin before it’s replaced with crumbling concrete.

The mask glares down at him, eye glowing colder than the snow that melts on his bloody cheeks. “He’s dying,” he gasps, struggling to his feet again. He can’t breathe—it hurts. “I have to help him, Tony. They’re killing him.”

 _“Let them_.” His eyes burn amber, a color that used to paint his dreams in a very different way. “He killed my parents.”

He wakes earlier than he usually does: both hands wrapped around the gun, aiming it straight ahead, eye level, this time at the far wall washed in purple twilight.

They hadn’t always been his thing—the guns. But being on the run wasn’t kind to the sort of weaponry he’d grown accustomed to in the twenty-first century. Of course, it would take more than a couple decades in ice for him to forget the kind of training the army had drilled into him. Once he’d picked up Clint’s Desert everything sort of became natural again. He understands now why Nat never sleeps without one. Why Clint doesn’t. Why Sam says he doesn’t.

They can try to lead a normal life all they want. _They’re_ not normal. And they never will be.

He waits until his breath stops shaking and evens out. It only takes a couple breaths to make the room stops shrinking. The walls are deep violet now, a plum color that reminds him of New York’s night sky.

He can stand, the pain subsided now to a dull ache. The stitch in his side has all but faded however the pain in his shin will probably haunt him for the next few days. Neither needs bandages anymore and his head has finally stopped swimming enough for him to pull on the bottom half of his battle-dress, hoodie on top.

He almost walks out without it but catches himself when one hand dives blindly into the emptiness of his pocket, instinctively seeking out the cool plastic edges. Only with it hidden away on his hip does he finally make his way down the tiny wooden stairs of the safehouse.

It’s dark but he can hear all of their voices even from upstairs: Hawkeye’s cheeky quips, Widow’s serene retorts, and Falcon’s baritone chirp. There’s only one person missing from the ensemble and for a moment he yearns to be back in Wakanda. _There’s work to do._ And then, _but it’s not home._

Sam catches his eye in the dimly lit kitchen, setting his beer down on the table. He’s always been red in his mind. Always the same glossy shade of dark cherry but his voice has always tasted like blueberries. Steve catalogs his injuries: wrist brace, iced; stitches on his temple, and numerous bandages on the tips of his fingers and palms—brightly colored with tiny cartoon chicks on them. “Y’know when I said you’d pull off a good Jesus, I didn’t mean the part where you die and come back.” No bullet wounds. Good.

Steve offers him a smile that isn’t all fake, leaning on the door frame. “Next time I’ll stay under a little longer.”

Clint nods, slightly slurred but with his eyes still bright and inquisitive. The bandage on his shoulder and neck has been changed but it’s the only visible wound the ex-soldier has. He raises his own bottle—it’s the cheap stuff from the gas station on the other side of town—and he can smell the liquor on his tongue. “Let freedom ring, motherfucker.” The taste of charred meat invades his mouth but his voice smells like puppies.

Sam barks out a laugh. Natasha sits between them, her back to him until she turns around. Her own drink is half full. There are blossoms of color on her jawline, a shallow cut that travels from her cheek and up to the bridge of her nose. She isn’t quite quick or sly enough to completely hide the dark bruises and red rings around her wrists when she pulls down the sleeves of Clint’s shirt. She smiles at him anyway and if he hadn’t seen, he would’ve never known. “How are you feeling, hero?”

He just frowns at her. “Let me see.”

Her name smells like gasoline, like hot tar and gunmetal and tastes like expensive soap. Her voice reminds him of celery.

Her eyes roll but she offers him her arm. “I’m fine, mom.”

He holds her palm in one hand, pulls back the sleeve with the other. There are clear fingerprints in her pale skin, dark red and purple. It must hurt terribly but she gives no sign. Across the table, Clint’s eyes darken and he finishes off his bottle. She starts to pull away and he gets the hint, just shaking his head instead. “Buck’s going to kill me.”

She pats his arm, taking a swig and offering the rest. “He knows the risks. How are you?”

He shrugs, takes the bottle but doesn’t see any point in lying. “Better. Whatever you gave me helped.”

“Yeah. Half a bottle of Motrin,” Sam scoffs. His arm is thrown behind Clint’s chair, perfectly comfortable and relaxed. At first glance at least.

He’s got bags under his eyes that can be easily overlooked. He blinks slowly, almost lazily. Trying not to fall asleep.

Clint perks back up, raising an eyebrow when Sam stands to move toward the fridge. “Geez. You tryna kill him?”

“I don’t know, doc,” he says, leaning into the door to produce two more bottles. “Did it work?” he asks smugly, tossing one to Clint, keeping the other for himself when Steve waves.

“Oh, I liked it when it was quiet,” Natasha says playfully.

He smiles again. “So did I.”

Clint points the neck of his glass towards the airman. “That’s why she spiked your drink with Benadryl.”

Sam’s face straightens when he fixes Natasha with a deadpan stare. “You did not.”

Clint snickers again. “You’re right. I did.”

“I hate you.”

“Children,” she smiles.

“Run into any trouble?” Steve redirects. He opens the fridge himself, swallows his disappointment when he finds nothing but off-brand Gatorade and another untouched six-pack.

“Nothin’ I couldn’t handle. Some stragglers that got lost on the way to the hospital. I gave ‘em directions.”

“What a good samaritan we have here.”

He chuckles, turning back to them with a beer in his hand. Nat raises an eyebrow at him when he tosses back half in one go. “He says you’re a cheap shot, Sam.”

“Yeah, well maybe if you could drive as well as you shoot I wouldn’t be, grunt.”

Clint’s laughter is sharp, sarcastic and good-natured. “Who’re you callin’ grunt, zoomie?”

Sam looks over his shoulder helplessly. “A little help here, Steve?”

“What’s wrong? Chair force can’t take the heat?”

This time they all laugh. A warmth returns to his chest. One from the days Before.

Sam shakes his head while Clint fist-bumps him. “That’s messed up.”

_“Nice.”_

He brings them back together, back to the ground where it’s safe. “No tails?”

“None,” Sam answers. His voice is deep and smooth with fatigue and his breathing has slowed into a steady thrum, like waves on a beach. He still fights it, blinking rapidly when he falls too deep.

He knows the feeling.

“Good, let’s go.” He grabs his jacket from the back of Clint’s chair, swipes the beanie off his head that produces a weak objection.

“Uh, where?” Natasha asks, standing anyway and sliding her unfinished beer to her partner.

“Town,” he replies. He pats Sam’s shoulders. “There a cafe around here?”

“Yeah, I think. A couple blocks away.”

“Perfect.”

Clint downs the rest of Nat’s drink, grinning when he receives a look of disapproval. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

“You mean drink all my beer,” Sam harks, catching the hoodie Nat throws in his direction.

He leans back in his chair, balancing on its two wooden legs. “Mm. Don’t wait up!”

Steve tries to hold in his laughter, hustling the pilot out the door with Natasha smiling on the porch. “Drink _her_ stuff,” Sam snaps back, but there’s nothing but warmth in his tone.

“I _don’t_ have a death wish, birdie.”

“You do if you touch my shit, Barton. I’m watching you.”

There’s a kissing noise right before the door closes and this time the laugh escapes his chest. “You too, sweetheart.”

Natasha snorts while they catch up, sporting her favorite pair of lensless glasses and Dodgers cap. “Get a room.”

Sam punches her shoulder lightly and she lets him, elbowing him back lightheartedly. “I did. He Saran-wrapped it.”

Steve lets them bicker between themselves until eventually, they’re walking in companionable silence. The safehouse they’d chosen happened to be a mile outside of town, a way into the countryside and hidden from the homely aura of the old French village. Deep in the country, they’re surrounded by crickets and thickets and fields of wild lavender. Against the dying sun, he can almost forget that mere hours ago he was on the verge of death.

Only a few cars drive past and Steve catalogs the plates of each one, subconsciously situating himself between the road and his partners, waving to the drivers when they pass. He doesn’t miss how Sam ducks his head away each time someone looks their way. When they actually make it into town and they pass more people it happens more often. Steve changes his positioning so that Sam walks between him and Natasha.

Between the four of them, Sam and Steve are the only ones that can’t speak French fluently. Personally, he remembers bits and pieces from what the Commandos taught him (Dernier had a filthier mouth than any of them had anticipated). Sam considers himself a monoglot, but Steve’s heard him carry on conversations in Arabic and Armenian without so much as a hiccup.

Sam butchers the name of the pub they stumble across. Only after the dirt turns to cobblestone and the twilight gives way to the lights strung over the streets and between the buildings do they decide on a bar dark and discreet enough to enter. Potted plants rest on the cobblestone on either side of the door, something that he’s begun to associate with good food, and good people. The patio is only populated by a few couples, chatting idly over easy music and the clinking of glasses and laughter floating through the open doors.

Natasha grabs his wrist before he can follow Sam through the door. “Steve.” Her voice hinges on the edge of concern and he looks back to probing green eyes. “One-to-ten.”

He pulls, testing her strength but her fingers only tighten around his pressure point, making him twist uncomfortably. “Natasha—“

“One-to-ten,” she repeats and he knows there’s no way out.

He notes the tightness in his chest, the blood in his ears and the nightmare still fresh in his mind. The number that comes to mind solidifies when it passes through his lips. “Seven.”

She lets him go then, following close behind when they enter the small bar and bistro. It couldn’t possibly what she wanted to hear but he doubts that she’s surprised. He wonders if she’s asked Sam or Clint had asked the same.

The former grins back at them by a short, pixie-faced waitress with a pink smile. “Hey, love bugs.” He wags his eyebrows and winces when Nat fixes an easy pinch onto the shell of his ear.  

All his smiles and jokes can’t hide the pure exhaustion in his gait. He guesses that Sam is a seven too.

They manage to get through Steve’s order of two bowls of beef bourguignon and French onion soup before Natasha takes the reigns. The poor waitress smiles in relief when Natasha’s fluent French completes their orders. It’s only a minute later that she sets down three mugs and a pitcher of coffee. “Thanks,” he blushes, unable to keep the heat from crawling up his neck. Nat just smiles, wraps her hands around the cup she pours. Rosemary and lemon pools intensely on his tongue.

Sam grunts in agreement, reaching eagerly for his mug with slow eyes.

“Clint told me about your theory,” he says around the lip of his mug once the waitress is out of earshot and leaning down with a smile at another table inside. A family. A little boy grins up at her. A mother laughs. He hears bees and his skin is warm.

“Is that what he called it?” Sam scoffs after a sip of his own. His nose crinkles and Steve automatically pushes two squares of Splenda towards him.

“What do you mean?”

He tips one packet in, half of the second and drinks without stirring. “You both know him better than I do,” he says tipping his head knowingly.

He shares a look with Nat who raises an eyebrow, not looking too invested in the conversation, on the outside at least. Her eyes scan the street and the windows, profiling every face that passes.

Steve regards them both for a moment. _“His_ theory, then. A strain of sarin?”

Sam leans forward on his elbows, swirls the mug. The table is uneven and slopes in his direction. “He explained it as more of accelerated targeted botulinum toxin.”

Botulinum. That’s one that he _has_ heard about. Horror stories mostly.

“He have any other ideas?” One of the other tables flags down their waitress—Camille, she’d said her name was. They smile and laugh while they say goodnight, hugging too. She has dimples, he notes. The dark caramel skin on her cheeks is so thick with freckles that for a moment he thinks that no one would ever be able to count them all. She catches his gaze, almost accidentally and when she double-takes he can feel the heat rushing to her face from across the courtyard.

There was a time when he would’ve wanted something as domestic as a girl, a family. And it had taken a long time for him to come to terms with the fact that he’d never get it. The universe had other plans for him.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts and scanning the intimate scene that he almost doesn’t notice the veteran chewing his cheek distractedly. “Sam?”

He looks over his shoulder inside the restaurant, at the family behind them, the two teenagers by the window, the old man in the booth  And then, “He thinks it’s Ross.”

Camille materializes beside them, smiling apologetically and deposits a small basket of bread. He thanks her numbly and she blushes.

When she’s gone again, even Natasha’s eyebrows furrow. “Ross?” he echoes, not willing to believe it.

The name has always tasted like metal in his mouth. Like numbing jelly at the dentist.

The last time he’d seen Ross was on television at the signing of the Accord’s latest amendments that claimed responsibility for the events in Vienna, Bucharest, and Leipzig, formally apologizing for essentially forcing his team to surrender in less than three days. Accountability is a street that runs both ways.

But that had been months ago. And there had been no mention of the underwater supermax prison that had evaded them before.

It had also been the last time he saw Tony.

He’d looked… good. He smiled at the cameras, played up the same qualities of the well-meaning prick he remembers. But it’d all been fake.

_“I don’t like to be handed things.”_

But he’d taken that pen right out of Ross’ hand, let him pat his back, let his hand sit on the crest between his shoulder and neck while he leaned down to sign.

He smiled the whole time.

No, they couldn’t have normal things.

Sam sneers bitterly into his coffee, dumps the other half of his sugar into it. “Who else would pay an international criminal to drug America’s most wanted superhero?”

He’s still reeling when Natasha quietly reaches for a bit of bread, chewing carefully before speaking. “Before SHIELD fell, Pérez was one of our priority targets.” She leans back, knee pressing against the table, propped up on her chair. “He’s dealt with HYDRA before. They’re the reason he got his hands mutants and the X-gene.”

“Were you ever assigned him?”

“If I had then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Steve crosses his arms. He does remember Pérez’s name in some files back after the Battle of New York. Defeating Loki didn’t erase the fact that SHIELD had been using the Tesseract for Phase Two. He doesn’t remember what kind of list the trafficker had been on but it wasn’t for his good deeds. Rumlow had dropped his name once or twice too, in STRIKE briefings and exercises. It had been easy to think of him as a myth back then. _People like him don’t use sarin. They use Rohypnol, chloroform._

Natasha must be thinking the same thing. “He’s already been involved in human-mutant experimentation. It wouldn’t take much to convince him to take on a bigger target.”

A super soldier. “Who has access to the technology to make this stuff?” he argues. “It’s banned worldwide.”

“Doesn’t mean no one has it,” Nat counters, idly. She’s looking back out the street again, considerably more troubled than before.

Sam takes a piece of bread, picks it apart while he talks. “Its weaponization is banned. The only other limit is how much you can stockpile, and politicians are masters of loopholes.” He looks down into his cup and the night gets a little darker. “It’s popular in the east. You know how many stings we did on Al-Qaeda? Those guys have _vats_ of this shit and we still don’t know where they get it from.”

 _“Et voilà,”_ comes a sweet voice. He feels numb as Camille drops their plates in from of them all: two bowls of  _bourguignon_ , one bowl of French onion soup, and two plates of _coq au vin._ She places them in front of Natasha and Sam. They’ll pick at it but he knows that it’s all for him. _“Fais-moi savoir s'il y a quoi que ce soit que je puisse faire, monsieur.”_

This time he manages to respond with his own charming smile. _“M’appeler_ Steve.” She grins after a beat of silence, the pink returning to her cheeks and ears. _“Merci beaucoup,_ Camille.” Rosemary.

The food is hot on his mouth but there’s no taste. The three sit in silence while he finishes off one bowl, then the next. Getting used to how much he ate had been one of the first obstacles he’d had to overcome with the serum. Before, he’d almost never had an appetite and could go a day without feeling a compelling need to eat. Bucky had been furious when he found out, Steve remembers fondly. From then on he’d made sure that they both had enough to eat, working extra hours to put food on the table. Now, he’s always hungry. On busy days, he’s burning calories almost as fast as he consumes them, leaving his stomach in a cavernous pain. MRE’s were a must, and they learned a long time ago that stockpiling eggs was a quick fix.

He tastes real rosemary on his tongue and frowns.

Sam stares blankly at the table, moving his hands across his forearms almost as if rubbing goosebumps away. “Eat,” he says and the pilot looks up like something had bitten him. Steve just nods to the  _coq au vin._

“Shellfish. Can’t. It’s yours anyway. I didn’t take two bullets and a fatal dose of Cap-be-Gone.”

“We all took hits. And I told them to cook everything separately, so chow,” Natasha counters. The response is so quick that Steve doesn’t doubt that she’s been anticipating his resistance.

He just shakes his head stubbornly. “I’m not hungry.”

Steve stops chewing, slowly sharing a _look_ with Nat before dropping his spoon. “You need to get some sleep, Sam.” He leans forward on his arms until he looks up.

“Sooner or later the coffee stops working,” Nat says softly. “Just eat something.”

He frowns heavily, shrugging off her hand. “I can’t eat when there’s someone hunting us down trying to use you as a pincushion.”

None of them say a word.

He doesn’t move for a long moment, looking between them with a troubled gaze before reluctantly picking up a spoon. Before he does, however, his jaw sets. “I know you don’t wanna hear it, Cap, but Stark’s been out of the news for weeks, and weapons? It’s in his blood.”

Instantly, he loses his appetite. He tries not to let the spoon hit the table too hard when he puts it down but it does, enough for both of their eyes to snap onto him. Defensiveness overpowers the shame and the phone is a deadweight in his pocket. His skin tingles, hypersensitive now. _Cold. Cold. Crunch!_ “Tony doesn’t do bioweapons.”

And Tony’s name.

Tony’s name tastes like desert wind and alcohol wipes. It’s charcoal gray in his mind and sometimes it tastes like that too.

“Maybe he didn't,” Sam responds matter-of-factly. He swirls his spoon through the chicken but doesn’t eat it. “He used to manufacture weapons. Weapons that people like Pérez got their hands on.”

“He never sold to terrorists.” _That shield doesn’t belong to you._

Sam raises an eyebrow, finally taking a bite of his food. “Really? How exactly was Iron Man born? You’re a quick study, Steve but you’re not stupid.”

His eyes narrow and anger fills his chest. At himself, for daring to argue with his best friend, at Sam for even _implying_ that Tony would stoop below… whatever this is. _But would he?_ “He was captured, Sam. By the same people you were fighting.”

“Okay.” He runs a hand down his face. “I’m not trying to—I know you care about him—or whatever you wanna call this complicated thing between you two—but tell me: is this not _well_ within his capabilities?”

He can’t answer that. Not if it will end with him saying things he’ll regret. His gnashes his teeth together, smothering the words that threaten to leap off his tongue and breathes through his nose. _So was I._

Natasha intervenes before his resolve can break, dropping her fist from where she’d placed it on her mouth. Her green eyes are sharper than ever when she fixes her gaze between the two of them. “This isn’t him. Stark likes to put his name on things. If it was his, we’d know.”

He remembers the footage of Stark’s presentation. The moments before his convoy had been blown to pieces. Moments before Iron Man was born. Reading that in SHIELD’s files had finally led him to the story—the _epic_ —that was Tony Stark. He’d learned that Howard had a son. He’d had a wife. He’d moved on. Tony Stark had just been another disappointment in his life after the war. Then New York happened. DC happened. Sokovia happened and Siberia happened.

Sam considers this, moving the chicken around his plate before chewing thoughtfully. “ATCU was established by President Ellis in place of SHIELD after it fell. We know that Pèrez had ties in the southwestern US. It makes sense that Ross would use them as a resource to come after us.” He looks at Steve in particular. “Maybe he’s using Stark as a resource too.”

He definitely isn’t hungry anymore.

“Drop it, Sam. It wasn’t him.”

Because what Sam is implying is impossible. If Ross had Tony up his sleeve, if Tony had been behind this last mission then there really is no hope. No hope for the olive branch in his pocket, for fixing this fucking mess. For going home. God, he _hates_ rosemary.

“Listen,” Sam says softly, and he’s looking back at his food. “You know him better than I do and maybe that means you’re right. Or maybe it means you’re biased.” He hesitates.  “I told him where you were on one condition and you come back beat half to death, with Barnes barely breathing. He lied to my face. Do you really think it’s that much of a stretch that he’d lie to yours?”

There’s nothing malicious in Sam’s eyes, no anger or fear, just conviction.

Natasha looks between them but she’s a lot less sure now. Years now of fighting and _breathing_ beside her has left her emotions an open book to him. She weighs his words in her head and he can see her brain working behind her eyes. Then, “Stark’s a lot of things but he’s not a traitor.”

This time there is a light, sour taste of anger on his tongue. “He let Ross throw us in the Raft.”

Nat takes a piece of bread, swipes it through his _coq au vin._ “You put yourself in that situation, Wilson.”

He wonders if that’s why Sam won’t sleep. If it’s because he’s afraid to wake up in those walls again, ears popping when the prison dives under the waves. He’d seen the conditions they were being kept in. Without trial, indefinitely. Wanda in a collar. He’d _wished_ then that Ross would find him and send his men. He would’ve killed them all.

He wouldn’t sleep either. But is that on him? On Tony?

The words slip out of his mouth before he can reel them back in. “How is he?”

Natasha blinks at him for a moment. She knew that he knew, he knows that. The surprise must come in response to him actually growing a pair and acknowledging it. She chews slowly, holding his gaze.

Before she’d joined them in exile, she’d drifted. She’d gone back home, stayed in the States. She saw Pepper right before she came to them. He remembers smelling the rose perfume on her hair—something he’d helped Tony pick out himself. She saw Fury too—what he’d had to say on the break-up, he doesn’t know. But he knows that she went to see Tony. That she talked to him. That she still does sometimes.

It hurts. It hurts that Tony would text her on his own, probably knowing that half the time Steve was only a few feet away. And yet, his phone never rang. Half of him knows he deserves it. The other half wants to confront Tony directly and call him out on his petty bullshit.

Unsurprisingly, he ends up doing nothing.

She answers carefully, watching every movement of his face. He tries to school himself into a neutral expression, not sure if it works or not. “On the outside, better. In reality?” She blinks and takes a sip of her coffee. “A seven.”

He gives up, leaning onto his elbows and rubbing his eyes. This is what Zemo reduced them to: strangers that haunted each other’s nightmares. _You should’ve told him. He should’ve listened._ There’s a warm calloused hand on his wrist and Sam says his name.

Nat speaks again. “He says hi.”

He can’t help the dry scoff and the eyebrow he raises in her direction. “Does he now?”

“I know what he meant,” and she smiles. They’re a lot older than they were back then, he thinks, watching her lips and her hair curl in the wind. She’d reminded him of Peggy when they first met on the tarmac of the helicarrier. Now he sees how glaringly different they are and how he’d come to depend on them both.

Sam too: a grounding heat that he didn’t know he needed. Someone that showed him his weaknesses, showed him the loyalty and camaraderie, the brotherly bond that came with standing among soldiers. He taught him how to fly but also how to fall.

“You never told us what happened,” Sam says, releasing his hand. The skin still burns, even when the cool wind kisses it.

“It’s not important.”

Sam blinks, mildly disappointed. “I don’t need to remind you that secrets are what got us into the mess.”

“It’s in the past,” he replies stiffly. “Nothing is going to change what happened so let’s move on, okay?”

He pretends not to notice the apprehensive look the two trade, each of them scoffing of disbelief in their own silent way. Natasha tips her head, conceding for now. “Have you called him yet?”

He cradles his coffee. It’s empty now but it gives his hands something to do. “You know that I haven’t.”

Sam barks out a laugh. “The way you carry around that damn phone? I better not find any nudes in your texts, Steven.”

He can’t help the chuckle and even Nat cracks a smile. “Smart-ass.”

“Not gonna congratulate him?” she asks.

“On what, the engagement?” He shakes his head. “That was months ago. He doesn’t want to hear from me. If he needs me he’ll call.” _Will he?_ It’s been ages since either Tony or Pepper have been in the news, even longer since he’s seen them. Yet with no world-ending threats delivered as of late, he supposes there’s no need.

Iron Man’s last appearance had been two months ago in response to a few part-time terrorist cells in Afghanistan and Johannesburg. He and the remaining Avengers had cleaned up there while Steve and his team traveled to rural Russia to investigate a rogue HYDRA installation that the UN has neglected to acknowledge. It was quick work, but Steve still hadn’t been able to hold in his proverbial “I told you so” while kicking neo-Nazi ass.

He fingers the phone in his pocket, wonders if Tony has it on him right now, too angry and pissed to consider using it. But keeping it close all the same.

Natasha squeezes his hand for a moment, lending him a soft smile and her unwavering strength. “We take what we get, Steve.”

He grins cheekily after a moment, not willing to dwell on the thought of Tony anymore. “You wanna take the check?”

She laughs easily. “No, but Sam will.”

Sam shakes his head vehemently, stabbing an accusatory fork at them. “Y’know, you three better start treating me better if you want me to stick around.”

“Maybe we should get him a pet,” Nat muses. She puts her chin in her hand, looks up at him and he can’t help but toss his head back.

“It’d make his brother jealous.”

She sighs mockingly, sending a pitiful look in Sam’s direction. He just flips her off. “Kids were a mistake.”

Steve knocks his shoulder against hers. “Hey, the other one’s yours.”

The short, sweet moment is lost the instant Natasha’s face slips into a mask of cool calculation. Her lips straighten and so does her back when she looks past him. “Steve.”

Camille stands behind his shoulder, not blushing from anything more than embarrassment now. There’s a blocky phone in her hand with the restaurant’s name taped onto the back and alarm bells go off in his head before she even speaks in soft French. _“Excusez-moi. C’est pour vous.”_

He thanks her, taking the phone from her small hands and turning back into the table. “What happened?”

Clint dives in without the slightest hint of humor or tease and the hair on his neck stands up. _“Picked up news on the station. From Barnes.”_

The beginnings of panic start low in his stomach and Steve almost cuts him off.

“What’s it say?”

_“He hasn’t seen Wanda in a couple days. The country’s on lockdown, total blackout.”_

He’s silent for a long moment and then repeats it quietly at Sam’s request. The pilot frowns. If he wasn’t fully invested before, he is now. “What could’ve prompted that?” he asks under his breath, watching the other tables carefully.

“Wakanda doesn’t have any enemies,” Natasha adds lowly. Her stillness unsettles him more than she knows and he resigns to watching Sam’s dancing fingers. “And if it’s not an outside threat—“

He’s already standing and reaching for his wallet, “Then it’s an inside threat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to split this up into two chapters. A lot of this ended up being filler but I really wanted to explore Steve character after the shitfest that was CA: CW. _sputnik is definitely going to deal with that fiasco and since Steve is one of the core characters of this series, I felt like this was necessary for us to see where he’s been and how he’s been coping on his side of things. 
> 
> The second part of this chapter will be up in a few days since the wait was so long.


	4. /rosemary_2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you know who I am?” 
> 
> “Clint—“ 
> 
> He ignores her, repeating himself urgently and for the first time, Steve sees the whisper of emotion in the kid’s face. Bucky curses under his breath. “Do you recognize me?” he asks softer. 
> 
> “I—yes.”

By the time they’re over the outer reaches of Wakanda’s borders, he’s pretty sure he’s ripped out at least half of the hair on his head. He’s got the suit on—what’s left of it. The blue is faded, the white gone gray, and the helmet cracked a long time ago. He hadn’t had the guts to throw it out. 

Sam calls back from the pilot’s seat of their stolen quinjet. “How big was the threat?”

Clint grips the handholds above their heads, already suited up in his tactical gear. His bow is slung across his back and it’s the first that Steve’s seen of it since they’d left Wakanda in the first place. “Does it matter?” he asks over the noise of the thrusters reversing. 

“Yeah, because if they decide that we’re a part of that threat then it’s my ass that’s gonna get toasted first.”

“No one is getting toasted.” Steve pushes his way past the archer and Natasha. She’s decked out in her own gear, Widow Bites and guns all tucked away and idle. She puts up her hair, finally back to its beautiful russet color, while Clint stands behind her, stone-faced while he fastens the straps on her vest. Sam looks back at him when he leans into the cockpit. 

None of them have slept since they left. 

The Wakandan jungle is a blur underneath them even as their speed decreases steadily. The green canopy blocks out any sight of the ground and Steve catches sight of the cliffs that mark the country’s true border. Rich red-brown rock carves into the sky, braced by trees with roots like hands and fingers. Even as an illusion, the landscape is breathtaking. A lush oasis in the middle of what should be nothing but desert, Wakanda had evaded colonization and discovery for centuries until their official unearthing after the events of Vienna. Unfortunately, this hasn’t been the first lockdown since then. 

He doesn’t know much about the events that transpired mere weeks after the summit. Between his solo mission back to the Raft to break out his team and settling things with Bucky here, he hadn’t noticed the civil war rising within Wakanda’s borders. He knows that T’Challa refuses to talk about it in depth and that even Shuri avoids the topic. But he hadn’t been left completely in the dark. 

_ “Ulysses Klaue is dead.”  _

He’d been speechless for a moment. The black market arms dealer had been a mere inconvenience back when Ultron was a problem. He hadn’t even wondered where the vibranium came from back then, only that it was capable of extensive damage as a shield—not to mention its potential as a robot AI built by the world’s most innovative and resourceful engineer. God, he’d been so angry back then. He should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve told him then. 

_ “I am attending a meeting with the members of the UN tomorrow to open Wakanda’s borders and technology to the world,”  _ the Panther had explained. He had new scars, fresh wounds, and the grief in his eyes had been raw. But he’d nodded and said nothing. T’Challa has given up enough for him and his friends. 

He’d have to give a bit more today. 

“We’re not going to be able to get through their fields,” Sam warns. 

At this point, they’re going too fast anyway so he nods. He trusts Bucky. 

The cliff shatters when they crash through the optical illusion on the bubble that surrounds the country. The sky opens up again and the cliff falls away to rolling plains. The sea of grass waves, rolling in the wind. They’re too far to make out the city but Steve’s been here enough times to know exactly what boulder-crested hill it lies beyond. 

“Is that an outpost?” Clint calls back. He’s leaning into one of the windows on the side of the hull and Steve follows the markings on the windshield’s HUD to follow his gaze. 

“Border Tribe.” 

Wakanda’s first defense against outsiders emerge from the tree-line. From this height, he can’t make out any faces but he doesn’t need to. The hostility is obvious and palpable. He doesn’t even have to look at Sam for him to start the landing procedure, sighing heavily. 

Nat shakes her head, looking over his shoulder and he grits his teeth. “We don’t have a choice.” 

Clint scoffs, redoing the Velcro on his arm brace and gloves. “Great.”

Sam sets the ship down gently, cutting the engine and opening the bay door before looking back at him with an apprehensive lift of his eyebrow. 

Immediately the heat rushes into the ship, a humid warmth the clings to his skin, crawls under his clothing and into his lungs. The temperature difference between the African air and the quinjet’s AC leaves his cheeks feeling sharp like peppermint. Still, it isn’t too hot yet in the early, pre-dawn night. There’s a tinge of damp coolness on the undertones of the breeze and the moon is still bright enough to light their surroundings even to the unadjusted eye. 

Hawkeye and Natasha flank him when he stalks down the ramp and into the grass before the chief. “W’Kabi—“ 

The man sneers, fist tight around a wicked spear that glints and drips moonlight. He swallows, wishes—not for the first time—that he had his shield but settles for trusting the reinforced metal plates in his gauntlets. 

The Border chief’s voice is this with aggression and hostility. He’d never truly been approachable in the time that they’ve known each other but he tastes the tang of fear in his voice. “Turn around, Captain. You will not find the same infatuation that the king has for you here.”

Clint demands before he can respond, a cocky shift to his gait despite being vastly outnumbered by the war party. “What’s going on?”

W’Kabi sneers. “The Border Tribe answers to the king. Leave now, Captain.”

He steps forward, willing Clint to stand down. He holds his hands out diplomatically but more than a few of the warriors stiffen and adjust their stance to something much more offensive. Even Natasha straightens now, gaze flicking between each aggressor as Sam stalks behind her, EXO suit already on and idling. 

“I just need to talk to him,” he says. “I need to make sure my people are okay.”

The man’s eyes narrow viciously. “‘Your people?’” he echoes with a sick humor. “Your people have brought nothing but death to my country,” he hisses, stepping forward and out of the corner of his eye he sees Clint sliding the bow off his shoulder. “You abuse the king’s kindness for your own gain and expect us to sit by while you lay waste to our cities.”

He stiffens when the warrior braces his weapon in both hands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

There’s an arrow knocked on Clint’s string. “Back up, buddy,” he warns. The weapon is harmless for now but Steve knows exactly how long it takes for the marksman to draw all one-hundred-seventy-five pounds and line up a shot. 

He has to defuse the situation now. 

Before he can move, however, a small figure shoves forward between two deadly tribesmen. Small, petite, with eyes of fire, relief sets in. 

“Let them in,” she orders, turning to W’Kabi from Steve’s side. Her height barely clears his shoulder but the hesitation is quick and obvious. 

“Nakia.”

The young freedom fighter shoots him an orange look that has his mouth snapping shut. She’s gorgeous and draws everyone’s eyes—as most Wakandans do. It had been a feature he’d come to notice about the country: Wakanda’s alleged Panther spirit lived not only in the Black Panther mantle but in her people as well. He sees all of a hunter’s qualities in Nakia’s body language when she shuts down W’Kabi’s objection with a regal authority that mimics T’Challa’s own. 

“I—“ 

“King’s orders,” she responds curtly. Her tone leaves no room for argument and Clint finally unloads his bow, relaxing slightly. “Let them pass.”

She’s the one to stalk past them up the ramp, leaving them to follow. W’Kabi’s snarl is vicious, off-putting and uncharacteristic but he steps back from the engine when they start up again. 

“Welcome back, Captain,” she says evenly when Sam silently walks past her to the cockpit. Clint follows after giving her a pointed once-over.  “Miss Romanoff.”

They’re in the air again and he reaches for a handhold. She doesn’t. “Thank you.”

She averts her eyes. “Don’t thank me yet.”

“Where’s Wanda?” Clint demands without looking over his shoulder. He flicks switches on the console from over Sam’s back, leaning over his chair. 

She doesn’t answer and only then does Clint look back with narrowed eyes. 

Natasha glances at him and there’s a lot to unpack in the quick look.  “Where are Okoye and T’Challa?”

“The Dora Milaje and the Kingsguard are helping the Border Tribe. We’ll see the king in a moment.” But she sounds worried. 

She says nothing more when the quinjet picks up speed again. It only takes a few terse moments for the silhouette of the city to loom over the horizon. His stomach sinks, a hard pit of dread forming in his stomach. 

The palace rises before then in no time, carving like ink in the sky. The jet slows, engines rolling to a steady hum when Sam sets her down. Only then does Steve ask, “Why is the city dark?”

Nakia bites her lip, a tell he doesn’t remember her having before. The ramp lowers to the empty courtyard, gray in the moonlight. “We’ve tried to keep her detained but her powers—”

Suddenly, the full force of Clint’s body is pushing into his shoulder from behind. “Whoa, detained? What the hell do you mean ‘detained?’” He holds an arm out to keep the marksman from antagonizing the situation but Clint lays a warning hand on his shoulder, pushing him away without much result. Natasha grabs his elbow with his name low on her lips and Sam turns back from the controls, gauging the situation with a careful gaze. Nakia stiffens and her sharp eyes land on his, daring him to move just an inch closer. Her finger twitches once. Another tell. 

“Clint,” he warns, waiting for the hero to back off. “What happened?”

Clint jerks back into Nat and she holds his elbow in a death grip, daring him to move. Steve doesn’t doubt that if it came to a fight, Nakia would come out on top—but only barely. And only if she was quick enough. “We don’t know,” she says. “She just seemed to lose control all of a sudden.”

The archer’s already grabbing his bag and swinging it over his shoulder. “I want to see her.”

It’s a much deeper voice that stops them all. 

It’s only been two years but Steve can see the toll that politics has taken on him. The king stands before them in the moonlight, outlined with a sharp glow and washed out with gray. He doesn’t have the headpiece on but the Panther looks deadly even without it. The vibranium weave almost sparkles in the low-light and T’Challa’s chin tilts up in a colder greeting than he’d anticipated. 

“That would not be a good idea.”

And beside him—albeit much shorter and smaller—stands his sister. She isn’t smiling and that’s just another thing he notices that sends his intuition tipping greatly into the realm of “danger.”

“T’Challa. Shuri,” Natasha manages before he can find his voice. She’s the first one to step off the jet, nodding diplomatically, returning the same off-handed coolness that they had received. 

“Princess. Your Highness,” Clint deadpans, no doubt trying to gauge their emotions. T’Challa raises an eyebrow but his eyes slide back behind him. 

Sam follows Nat onto the ground, sauntering with a faux comfort that he imagines only he can see through. He smiles at Shuri, lighting up when the notion is returned. “What’s up, kit-kat?”

She answers while her brother remains silent, watching them as Nakia moves to his side silently. “I am glad to see you all in good health. Unfortunately, the circumstances are not ideal.” Her eyes dart to her brother’s for a split second before warming up again, this time with caution. 

Sam waves it off and directs his words to T’Challa directly. “We’ll catch up later, sweetheart. What do you got for us?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, dragging on the silence until Steve steps in between Nat and Sam, planting himself in front of them. They weren’t expected. And they aren’t welcome. Not now. 

T’Challa doesn’t speak again until they’re stalking down one of the palace’s long hallways. It’s dark, illuminated only by the pairs of Dora Milaje warriors stationed at random intervals. Their staffs glow with something metal and sharp, casting a pale blue glow across their faces. He feels Sam pulling closer to his side, a defensive position when they pass. Natasha pulls ahead slightly when Nakia peels away down a much longer hallway that Steve thinks leads up to the council room. 

“Miss Maximoff appears to have undergone a severe case of psychosis.” His voice sounds much more sinister when it bounced back to them off the sleek walls than it does coming from his mouth. He doesn’t turn back to address them and walks just fast enough that even Steve has to make the conscious effort to lengthen his stride while he pulls behind his heels. “She has been unresponsive and her abilities have been extremely volatile and dangerous.”

The windows sweep up from the floor and into the ceiling, a creative liberty taken by the architect to boast Wakanda’s natural beauty and technological prowess in one grand gesture. The glass curls far about their heads and into the sleek design of the building. The horizon is clearly identifiable now, slate against the gray, pre-dawn light. 

“Has she gotten worse?” Clint demands from the rear. 

Shuri answers, slightly out of breath when she half-jogs to break ahead of T’Challa. “She seems to be unable to connect with reality. It’s hard to explain without showing you.”

“Is this wing evacuated?” Steve asks when they enter a much larger room. It’s atrium-like, with tall windows, sweeping drapes and an eclectic mix of modern wooden and wicker furniture. He recognizes the table on the other end, the glass hallway that leads to a small kitchen, the other arching hall that curves out over the mountainside and into expansive rooms and suites. 

This is where they’d left her. 

“We could not take any chances,” T’Challa replies, nodding to a post of guards barricading that same curves hall. The extent of Miss Maximoff’s abilities are still unknown. For the safety of my people, that was the first step.” 

“Good.” He doesn’t mention that this part of the palace is also the farthest away from the rest, high above the tree line and tucked into the shadows of the highest vibranium reaches. An oasis of jungle and waterfalls behind the mountain, the king’s guest suites were as safe and extravagant as they were hidden from the rest of the city. 

The stop near a familiar door and already Steve can feel the shift in energy as clear as stepping into a pool of water. None of the others react to the sudden feeling of coldness but he can see T’Challa lingering back from that invisible line of change, jaw clenched while his guardsmen eye them emotionlessly. 

Clint orders for him, “Open the door.” They don’t move until T’Challa echoes with an edge of challenge and resignation in his voice. 

The Dora Milaje barely step back before Clint is pushing past them and into the door, ignoring Sam’s call to wait. 

Steve can’t exactly blame him so he follows, motioning for Nat and Sam to stay put. 

“Jesus Christ.” 

Despite the room’s own floor-ceiling glass windows, none of the soft morning light even reaches the balcony. It takes even Steve’s eyes a few moments longer than normal to adjust to the almost complete darkness. Even with the door open, the dark swallows Clint who must only be six feet ahead of him. It’s a thick fog and for a moment he panics before he hears the marksman’s voice. 

“Wanda?”

They push forward carefully and the dread in Steve’s stomach only grows heavier. Barton must remember the layout of the room much better than he does because he bumps into his shoulder. The door and the outline of Clint’s shoulders are all that he can make out, the light of the doorway long gone. 

Steve gets his hand on the doorknob first, forcing Clint to step back with an impatient growl. He ignores it, leaning into the wood to call through. “Wanda, it’s Steve and Clint. We’re going to come in, okay?”

There’s no answer. 

_ “Fuck,”  _ Clint breathes when he finally shoves the door open. 

Red light flashes across the room in sporadic, wild bolts of energy. They snap against his arms and legs, brushing past his skin like waves of ragged ice. 

She’s in the center of it all and Steve’s never seen anything so haunting and beautiful. 

If the room had a bed in it, it didn’t anymore. Not one that was intact at least. Wood and stone alike hang suspended in the air. Like a mobile, or paper shapes hanging on fishing line from the ceiling, there are chunks and splinters bigger than his shield motionless in the open air. 

“Wanda?”

He can barely see her through the rubble. They hang in the air like a miniature asteroid belt, frozen in time and space with her in the center. Like the rest of the objects in the room, she defies gravity, floating on her back. It takes him a longer moment for him to notice that she’s not breathing—she’s not even moving. 

In the next second, the red wisps cascading from her skin snap out like lightning. They arc across the room in a sudden flash, like a camera and when the light retracts, she’s moved. 

Her face is frozen in fear, eyes screwed shut and mouth open like she’s screaming. She’s curled into herself, shoulders caving into her knees. 

She’s stuck in a moment, a Polaroid suspended in time. It’s like Shuri said, unable to connects to reality, like she’s got one foot inside the door. 

And she looks terrified. 

“Barton—“ he warns when the archer pushes past the hanging rubble. They seem to snap out of whatever trance they’re suspended in when his fingers touch them, instantly falling to the ground to shatter unceremoniously. 

He body writhes in snapshots and lightning flashes of movement, face frozen in agony with her eyes blown wide and white. The glow is almost blinding but he can’t bring himself to look away. 

_ Who could’ve done this?  _ What  _ could’ve done this? _

“Hey, kid. I’m going to come a little closer, okay?” Pieces of gravity-defying rubble fall away from empty space when Clint presses forward. “Can you hear me?” 

No sooner than the words escape his lips does the room shift again. The sheer power alone almost brings him to his knees, nausea forcing his eyes to screw shut. Even then, he can see the flashes of light on the backs of his eyelids, sudden and uneven. 

Her limbs bend into impossible, violent shapes. Her entire existence is unstable and she seems to flicker in and out of thin air. 

This time, her open mouth manages to produce a sound before her body flickers and flashes, snapping into another position. It’s a tortured and terrifying sound. 

“Shit!” He curses again when the rock and wood around them rise again, forming a loose cocoon, an orbit around her spasming body. 

Clint winces and takes another step closer. Dread knots now at his stomach so tightly that for a split second, he genuinely cannot take another stride. He watches Clint plow on unfazed, even when the very reality around them starts to bend.

The intervals between Wanda’s explosions of movement are random and sporadic, isolated at some moments and never-ending at others. His vision starts to curls around the red haze a few feet away. Wait—no, not his vision:  _ space itself.  _

Clint pauses to watch his arm bend through space and time, casting an illusion of an impossible curve of bone and muscle. 

“Okay, I’m gonna take that as a yes. You’re gonna have to come back, okay sweetheart?” He pushes forward, within arm’s reach of her now. “It’s just me. Come back to me, alright?” 

Time blinks and she’s reaching out with tears streaming down her face. 

“Clint—“ He forces himself to move closer, for the archer’s sake now more than Wanda’s

“She’s fine, you’re gonna be fine,” he argues. And his voice softens under the cracking energy, he sweeping gale of space and time bending around them— _ inside  _ them. “Come back to me, Wanda.” He grabs her hand. 

“Clint!”

Their palms touch and the fabric rips. 

He sees stars—not in his head, but real stars. Burning colors of pure elements, the fusion of basic universal building blocks against the empty canvas of space. It’s all laid bare before his eyes, for no less than a heartbeat before he feels the unimaginable heat on his face and the sensation of flying. 

Sharp pain pierces the canvas of his armor: stone and splinters slicing his bare skin until his breath is knocked out of him by a wall. 

He hears vague yelling before it filters in slowly. 

“What the hell happened?” Sam. There are warm hands on his shoulders sitting him up and he can see the destruction. 

The strange fog is gone. The power comes back on in the same instant and the mess is so much worse than he thought. 

There are dents and gouges in the walls—walls that he knows are reinforced with vibranium. The ceiling is barely intact, along with every piece of furniture in the room. Debris litters the floor: the slate ground, the glass tables and wicker furniture, it all gathers at their feet. Among it is Clint, unconscious. There’s a gash welling crimson on his temple and then Natasha’s blocking his view. 

“Clint! He’s out. Wilson, help me.”

She’s gone. 

There’s no sign of Wanda, no sign that she’d even been there if not for the utter destruction. He can’t even feel the nausea of her magic anymore. Like she’d never even existed. 

“He’s fine,” Sam says. “Concussion, no real damage as far as I can tell.”

He pushes himself to his feet, spitting out the grit and grain on his tongue. If anything, it stops him from outright shouting. He’s sure the sentiment bleeds through anyway. “Shuri—

She’s up to her knees in the mess, eyes wide and as scared as he’s ever seen them. It throws him back. “I don’t know—I don’t get it…” she whispers under her breath. She catches the sight of Barton, unresponsive in Sam’s lap, and Natasha’s well-hidden panic. T’Challa comes up behind her, his own concern clear on his face when he folds the genius into his shoulder. 

His eyes rake the rubble, accusingly while Shuri grasps at his shoulder. His next words aren’t a surprise. “Quarantine the city.”

One of the Dora Milaje nods and disappears after a brisk, “Yes, my King.”

He figures it’s safer now to confront T’Challla about the fury rising in his gut. The panic. He’s lost one of his teammates  _ again.  _ Because he left her here under  _ his  _ protection. Under  _ his  _ responsibility. 

“Where did she go?” Nat demands, watching Sam pressing his shirt to Clint’s forehead. She looks like she wants to follow but the anger in her eyes matches his own. 

“I don’t know,” he bites and it snaps what’s left of his stone resolve. 

“This has never happened before,” Steve starts. Sam rests a careful hand on his shoulder but the anger rising within him is irrational. “She’s been here for  _ your _ training, what did you do?”

T’Challa’s eyes flash and the air between them sparks when their glares meet. “Mind your tone, Captain. I will not be antagonized for the sympathy and asylum I have provided for you and your friends.”

Shuri moves from his shoulder, already more composed than she’d been seconds earlier. Her voice is strong and unwavering, garnering all the attention and focus in the room. “There have been intense power fluctuations in the atmosphere the past few days. Not just here but globally.”

“Why didn’t we know that?” Nat accuses. Like him, she’s past politeness and well beyond respect. 

T’Challa narrows his eyes and Steve finally gets a twinge of apprehension in his chest. No matter how angry they are, making an enemy of the Black Panther wouldn’t end well for anyone. Especially not after all they’ve done. 

It hurts to swallow his pride, but under the Panther’s relentless glare, he does, reaching out for Natasha. 

If Shuri notices the icy exchange, her voice doesn’t betray it. “The general public doesn’t have access to the technology yet. It’s a new energy signature, almost like Wanda’s powers, but on a much larger scale.”

“Steve.” Sam’s voice echoes even though he’s only halfway to the door. His hand waves in a circle like he’s trying to remember something. He snaps his fingers. “The Battle of New York. Didn’t Barton say that Loki guy had some kind of scepter? Some tessellation?” 

His eyes lock with Natasha and if he’d thought his stomach could sink any lower before, it proved him wrong now. 

“The Tesseract,” he confirms. Shuri’s eyes widen in recognition but he can’t be bothered to wonder why, turning to Nat instead. “It was taken back to Asgard. Why would it be here?”

“If it’s the source it doesn’t matter. We need to find it before anyone else does.”

“Thor hasn’t been to Earth since Ultron. As far as we know, Loki’s still on Asgard.”

Natasha frowns then and there’s a darker look of mistrust and open wounds that has him furrowing his brow. “The Asgardians have underestimated him before.” She looks back up slowly, realization across her face. “Bruce.”

Shuri leaps into the name in a heartbeat and no matter how much he adores the girl, he still has to swallow a biting dismissal. “Bruce Banner?”

“The Hulk?” Sam asks with a much more expected and incredulous tone. 

He shakes his head. “Natasha, no one’s been able to find him since Sokovia. Not even you.”

And she had tried. For months leading up to Sokovia, she’d tried. He didn’t pretend to understand the bond that the two had forged during Ultron’s reign. It was something intimate and foreign that he hadn’t wanted to spy on, but now, there’s far too much discomfort in Natasha’s voice for him to completely disregard. Her next words truly knock him off his pedestal. 

“Stark would know.” 

Sam’s answer is immediate and he stands sharply. “Hell, no.”

“Sam—“

His words are sharp and he looks directly at Steve. “Were you even listening to what I said? We can’t trust him?”

“We don’t have a choice,” Natasha argues and that voice—she knows that he knows. That deep underneath all that pain and guilt, he knows she’s right. “Steve—” 

He shakes his head. “I know. I know.”

He sees T’Challa watching him carefully with an unreadable look until a guard approaches him and their heads dip together.  

“If that signature is back then it means one of two things is coming: Loki, or something worse.” She speaks much softer now, a hand resting on his elbow. “We need him.”

But he’s watching T’Challa. Watching the stiffening of his shoulders, the deepening of his frown and the urgency when their eyes lock. 

“T’Challa, what’s wrong?”

And he’s already stepping back, poised to run. “Someone has been spotted on the grounds.”

 

* * *

 

The sky is silver now and the air is dripping with birdsong and dew. Mist overtakes the cloudbank above the canopy, washing the forest floor in a wet shadow. “Where is it coming from?” 

The Panther’s response is terse and Steve can’t see him when he turns. “The mines.” It tastes like red wine, warm next to a plate of potatoes. They’re seasoned with thyme of all things. And it smells like rubber. 

Falcon’s voice is a trill in his ear.  _ “Mines?” _

“The vibranium mines run beneath the entire city. Whoever it is has surfaced. They will know what Wakanda does to thieves.”

He brushes past a bush with fronds that are longer than his arm. Leaves and twigs snap under his feet, not like T’Challa’s whose are silent. “Whoever it is might have Wanda. We have to take him in as civilly as possible.”

The Panther doesn’t answer but Falcon does. “ _ Copy that, Cap. I’ve got one heat signature at your two.” _

Steve turns in that direction. It looks like more of the same: vines and trees with twisted roots. Plants that shouldn’t exist this deep into Africa’s landscape but do. Here, the forest breathes and blinks. There are flowers that glow, leaves that change colors and bark that’s  _ warm _ and  _ alive.  _ It would lead them toward the danger. It would protect them. “Let’s box him in.” 

Black Panther materialized by his shoulder and his feet are a soft purple and the grass chases his heels. “After you, Captain.”

“Falcon, on me,” he orders lowly, nodding to T’Challa and starting to stalk along a path that he picks through the undergrowth. He finds footholds where he shouldn’t, and his footfalls become silent on branches that should crack. If it freaks T’Challa out at all, he can’t tell.

_ “Got it.” _

It’s dead silent, nothing but unfamiliar crickets and frogs filling his ears. He can feel the wind, he can see it in the leaves but they don’t make a sound. 

Then he sees it—sees  _ them.  _ Narrow shoulders, hardly a shadow in the dark, but human all the same. 

T’Challa pulls away, stalking to the side to flank them. 

“On my mark,” he murmurs lowly. His heart pounds in his chest and then fades away with the rest of the background noise. Just crickets and steady breathing. He tests the weight of the gun in his hand, just to be sure and then—

_ “Mark!” _

His sights his nothing when he brings them to eye level.  “What?”

The clearing is empty and T’Challa creeps close from the other side, a scowl no doubt painting his face underneath the mask. No footprints, no broken twigs or branches, the intruder had disappeared like a ghost. 

“He got the jump on us?” he demands into his mic. He whirls around to scan the shrubbery and forest around them, eyes raking the foliage and treetops for any vantage he may have missed.  _ Sloppy, Rogers. Get your head out of your ass and catch this son of a bitch!  _ He breathes through the surge of anger and frustration. 

Falcon’s voice crackles to life before cutting out abruptly.  _ “Cap—”  _

His hand reaches for his earpiece. “Falcon?” No response. He curses. “Comms are down.”

Black Panther’s lenses zero in on his, head tipping slightly, eyes narrowed. His voice is low in his ears. “I know these forests by heart, Captain. He did not get far.”

He’s gone before he can say another word, melting into the forest noiselessly. Another curse drops from his lips. 

He’s alone. 

Shadows dance in the breeze, sunrise still not strong enough to permeate the canopy even though the sky is pink and orange. Everything below the treetops seems grayscale, a collage of dappled grays and blacks against each other. Closing in. 

His footfalls are still silent but with no one watching his back, the forest seems oppressive. He swears there are eyes on him that disappear when he turns, that there are whispers that his ears don’t quite catch. He swears the ferns under his feet curl around his ankles, that the branches he sweeps away cradle his neck just a bit too long, a bit too tightly. 

Static filters through the comms unevenly but whatever Sam or Nat or T’Challa says is lost to something that he’s sure isn’t nature. After a few more moments of hiking through the underbrush, he simply removes the earpiece altogether. 

It’s a dangerous bet; if they come back on, he’s blind, cut off from the team. But at least now he can hear,  _ really  _ hear. 

He stops walking. 

Leaves whisper against each other, a bird calls in the distance: an owl. There’s a rodent somewhere close, snuffling in roots and foraging for food. 

_ There.  _

A breath. 

“Steve!”

There’s a sharp whistling sound above his head and when he looks up, all he catches is a dark blur. What he does catch is a shriek and the deafening sound of wood snapping, of something hitting the ground at full speed. 

“Falcon!” he calls frantically. It’s a sharp right into the thicket, he thinks. But before he can start sprinting, he sees it again. Sees them. 

Thirty feet away, almost invisible. With glowing white eyes. 

His gun is up before either of them move. 

“Stop!”

He complies, even as the growl is escaping his throat. 

They’re small—a lot smaller than he is, barely more than another shadow in the dark. They’re turned away from him, hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. He can make out cloaked shoulders, high-tech gauntlets, and a narrowed white eye. 

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” His voice is young and soft, barely registers over the birdsong and wind. It tastes like paper towels, smells like warm glass. The color white snaps across his vision, a pale gray hue that rides the crests and troughs of his words

He adjusts his grip on the gun, taking careful steps closer, gauging the lack of a reaction. “From where I’m standing it looks like you do.” Three steps closer, still no movement. 

The retort is stronger this time and his chin turns a bit more. It’s a cowl: sleek, and black with a pointed beak-like face. The visible skin is pale, wind-burnt and pink. “You’re pointing a gun at me,” he scoffs. “Who’s hurting who here?”

He’s painfully curt and his tone carries a chastising not that grates hard on his nerves. “Who are you?”

He isn’t granted an answer. Instead, the hostility of his command is thrown back with a challenging authority. “Put the gun down.”

His teeth grind together and the stranger turns slowly. He moves with a cat-like litheness, each movement calculated and measured. He sees now that the cowl is part of a full-bodied cloak. The cape hugs those narrow shoulders and falls back to reveal an ensemble of a crimson plated tunic and black straps, accented only by a simple unfamiliar yellow insignia, centered flush on their chest. “How’d you get in here, son.”

Their mouth quirks this time, hands still up. Steve scans the utility belt on their hips, the other two crossing over their chest. No firearm that he can see. “I said put the gun down.” Then, slowly lowering their hands, they take a step forward. “I’m not the enemy here.”

“What did you do with Wanda?” 

The lenses are white-out. He can’t get an accurate read, can’t even gauge the emotional response based on anything but their voice. A  _ child’s  _ voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I am trying to help you, kid. I don’t want to hurt you.”

There’s a certain edge of impatience now, something he remembers having in his own voice. “Neither do I. Put down the gun before someone does.”

The interruption couldn’t have been timed any better. 

Black Panther stalks out of the verdant ferns across the clearing, his commanding voice the only thing that announces his arrival. “You are trespassing on royal grounds, outsider. I assure you that death is not worth your cooperation.” They look over their shoulder but don’t move otherwise. T’Challa’s helmet collapses from his face and the kid turns halfway. “But I am much more forgiving than my father. Surrender and you will be spared. You have my word.”

They seem to regard the young king’s words for a long moment, weighing their worth and Steve holds his breath. “I can’t trust your word.”

“As the king of Wakanda, I give it.” He stands there completely motionless as the two size each other up. T’Challa watches the stranger impassively, and Steve thinks that they might actually accept without a fight. But he’s proven wrong in the next moment.  

“Tell the captain to drop it and I will. I promise.” He tacks on the promise hesitantly, waiting several beats before voicing it and even then he sounds apprehensive, like he might just run away instead. 

The king’s eyes flick to his own. “Captain.” 

He thinks about Pérez, about moving too fast. He thinks about the girl in the closet, the bullet in Clint’s shoulder, in his own gut—his leg; about moving too slow. He’s not even aware that he’s made a decision, only knows there’s rosemary thick on his tongue. 

Three things happen in as many seconds. 

One: he backs off. He begrudgingly drops his arms to his side, relaxing his stance while the kid relaxes his own. 

Two: He realizes where they are: a thin part of the thicket where prairie grass bleeds into the underbrush. Where the trees are spaced close enough for shade during midday, spaced enough to provide a clear view of the grassy field to the east. 

Three: the sun breaks the horizon, crests over the mountain range in a blinding show of red. Sunlight bleeds into the sky and for a moment he can’t see anything. 

Anything except for that unmistakable glare of a scope on the hillside 1500 meters away. 

He can’t move fast enough, can’t yell quick enough, but somehow the kid knows just by looking at him. 

The bullet rips past them, reducing part of a trunk into splinters and sawdust just a second before they hear the report of the rifle barely a mile away.  

_ Shit.  _

The kid’s on him before he can get a word out. He blocks the kick coming up to his face more out of panic than coordination, gets his hand around a brittle wrist before it slams into his side. 

The kid twists his arm back with a snap, pulling himself in close until he can’t get his own punch in. Before he knows it, the same arm is shoved backward, straining the ligaments in his shoulder to sharp and suddenly that his brain shorts out. 

He shoves them both forward, releasing him. 

He sees another bullet tear into the dirt where the kid once stood, sending a burst of dust into the air when he slides his elbow into Steve’s ribs before he can block. Steve tags him with a glancing blow to the shoulder, lumbering too slow before the man spins around, digging his boot into his knee. 

He falls, nerves tingling dangerously. He expects a blow to the neck, expects darkness but he’s already turned away. 

He’s fought T’Challa before, when neither of them had been holding back and it’s not an easy feat. This kid, however, makes it look like dancing. 

They match the Panther blow for blow, step for step. T’Challa’s vibranium claws don’t even come close to his face and he blocks almost as fast as he attacks, not even turning his head to visually acknowledge the weapons that rake the air next to him. 

He moves almost too fast to track, even with Steve’s enhanced speed and tactical prowess. Their sniper fires again, missing when his target ducks underneath Steve’s right hook. He feels the kid moving behind him, whipping his hand out. Steve grabs his wrist again—almost by accident—and rocks his elbow into his face. He feels the cartilage crunch beneath the force of the blow but the kid doesn’t make a noise. Steve manages another punch, hard enough to shatter his rib cage if he wanted. The kid compresses his body, reducing the force onto his chest and pulls him to the ground, kicking his legs out from underneath him. His arm twists back on itself when he lands, disoriented.    
  
There’s blood in his mouth. There’s blood on his hands. He doesn’t know where either came from. 

He curses when he turns to face the mask, now a few feet away, a bo staff in hand. 

T’Challa stands between them, silent and poised to strike. 

“Stop shooting!” Steve yells, spitting out the copper on his tongue. He has no idea if they’ve heard him but he holds a hand out in the direction of the shots. Pushing himself to his feet, he regards the stranger again. 

They haven’t broken a sweat, not even panting. They just watch, mouth closed and tight-lipped, bo staff pointed directly at them. “Look at me, kid,” he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and stepping past T’Challa. 

The gun is between them, invisible in the dirt. If he can get slide enough, he can—

“Try it.”

His glare is downright frozen, a thousand pricks of ice on his skin when he meets those white-out lenses. The staff is rigid on his throat, digging in just hard enough to cause discomfort, slight pain when he swallows. 

Steve holds his hands up and lets the rest play out. 

A gun cocks. 

He can see their jaw clench, nothing else moving. “I was wondering when you’d come out,” he says, toneless. 

Sam’s voice is rough but hard. There are scratches on his face, blood under his eye and the suit is dead on his back. But his arm doesn’t waver, muzzle flush against the kid’s skull. “Enough.”

They seem to weigh their options and no one moves while he goads with an air of superiority. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

“Even if you could disarm me, you can’t outrun two snipers.”

They don’t react visually but Steve can hear his breath when they’re this close, and the no staff on his neck twitches, the air in his lungs stops. “I count one.”

“Maybe you’re not as good as you think,” Sam snaps. The kingsguard emerge from the shadows then, pillars of strength and deadliness with their glinting armor and spearheads. He sees the kid’s eyes widen, his muscle tense, but it only takes another moment of hesitation for the pressure on his trachea to lift. 

T’Challa’s command is immediate and guarded. “Okoye. Take him away.”

The general materializes in the foliage, merciless and furious. “Gladly.” She and another woman take the kid by the shoulders, not bothering to be gentle. To his credit, he doesn’t fight back, looking down silently instead when the shove him to his knees to bind his wrists and ankles with vibranium cuffs. 

Sam looks at him for a moment before he breathes out. “You okay?” Steve asks, reaching a hand to his shoulder. 

“Just a fall. Nothing I can’t handle,” he says gruffly, but he can tell that he’s shaken. 

“Miss Romanoff,” T’Challa says bluntly and Steve reaches into his pocket for his comm unit. 

_ “Your Highness.”  _ Her voice is as sultry and passive as ever, always carrying the same edge of faux innocence and ignorance.

T’Challa pauses, a multitude of emotions warring on his face before a begrudging gratitude wins him over. “Thank you.”

He can see her smile.  _ “Of course.” _

“However, I should arrest you for bringing weapons of war inside my borders.”

_ “If you were going to do that you wouldn’t have waited until now.” _

Steve looks back at the hillside. There’s no more glint or shine in the grass, no one lying in the dirt with their face to a scope. “Two snipers, huh?” he says, raising an eyebrow in Sam’s direction who winces with a grin. “I didn’t know bluffing was in your bag of tricks.” 

He chuckles weakly, following his gaze out to the meadow. “It’s cheap.” Then he tacks on, rubbing his shoulder and winking at T’Challa who watches expectantly. “But it’s also effective.”

The Panther smiles after a moment and both Sam and Steve call it a win. 

The Dora Milaje whisk the intruder off to parts unknown, taking T’Challa with them after a nod and a promise to update them as soon as possible. 

Nat tells them that Clint is still out cold, in the infirmary with Shuri. But there’s a familiar figure that trails after her with an unmistakable grin. 

“You missed our date, Rogers.”

_ There.  _ Undercooked rice and coal explode in his mouth, blending with the smell of artificial strawberries, and maple syrup: all of it undeniably  _ Bucky.  _

All of a sudden he’s safe again, whole again. He knows that they’re going to be okay. 

He grins. “Not all of us are retired.”

“Who says I’m retired, punk?” The smile he receives smells like metal and wood and then there are arms around him so tight that the words catch in his throat.

He looks good—real good, all things considered. Of course, Shuri has been feeding him updates and progress reports on his rehabilitation ever since they took him out of cryo, but this is the first he’s felt him—the first he’s felt the thrum of his voice in person since the week after Siberia. He mentally thanks Barton for the foresight of setting up a line of communication to Bucky independent of any of Wakanda's mediums. Although they most likely knew (and didn't approve), most of the times he found that knowing Buck was only a phone call away simply kept him going. And now, he tries his hardest not to melt into Bucky's touch, into the strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and just let go of the weight he's been carrying for so long. 

For a long, tortured, and selfish moment, he wants the soldier all to himself; to run back to New York, to buy a tiny, shitty, overpriced apartment in Manhattan and just  _live._

For time's sake (and his own dignity), he pulls himself together—though Bucky's faint smirk tells him that he sees right through. It only makes his heart swell even more. Rosemary floods into his cheeks along with the heady scent of apple trees. 

“How are you, Buck?”

His smile is teasing and so familiar that he can almost pretend that they’re back on the front, hunkered down on base with the rest of the Commandos after a long mission in the cold. One that they all come back from. “Better than you apparently.” His eyes must widen because Bucky winks. “A little bird.”

Sam chirps indignantly from the chair on the other side of the room where Natasha helps him into a shoulder brace. The scowl is playful—like all his interactions with Bucky end up being. “I’m little, now? Keep talking, I’ll put you in a home, Barnes.”

Nat tsks with a half smirk, chiding, “That’s no way to talk to your elders.”

“Oh, I’ll put you there too,  _ паук,” _ he snorts. He pulls his shirt back over his head when Nat steps away laughing, rolling his shoulders tentatively while he stalks towards them. The hug he wraps Bucky in is preceded by a set of light-hearted punches and flicks. 

“Good to see you again, brother.”

Steve catches the waggle of Nat’s eyebrows and laughs. 

“You too, Sammy,” Bucky answers into his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at Steve. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Sam demands when they break away _.  _ No one misses the way Natasha immediately fills in the space that Sam vacates, not touching or even looking at him until he reaches blindly for her hip. No one says anything about it. 

“Here, punk. Watching over the brat.” He doesn’t need to look around, he’s already done a headcount. “Where’s Clint?”

The atmosphere goes bleak again and Steve’s easy smile grows tight-lipped again. “Wanda’s gone missing.”

Bucky leads them to a room he doesn’t recognize. There aren’t any windows, and machines he can’t discern the purpose of line the walls that arch into a smooth white dome. The heavy wooden door closes behind them, leaving them in complete darkness until Bucky presses something against the wall. 

Strip lighting along the floor flickers to life, just bright enough to see each other’s faces. Enough to see the deep-set concern on his friend’s. 

“What happened?”

Natasha answers, arms crossed and leaning on the wall beside the door. “She vanished. Disappeared. Just after we got here.”

“Just like that?” Bucky asks, unbelievingly. 

Steve sighs through his nose. “We don’t know why. Her powers were off the charts, she wasn’t responding.”

“She knocked Clint out cold,” Nat adds bluntly. Bucky just blinks at her. 

“Our Clint?”

Steve shrugs with a look he’s sure is more of a grimace than anything else and turns back to face the ginger assassin. “How is he?” 

Her eyes meet his, vivid green even in the dark. “Minor concussion. He should be up soon.”

It’s silent before Bucky breaks it, turned away from them. “She came to see me yesterday.”

Sam finally scoffs, sitting on one of the counters on his left. He perched like Clint would. “She talks to you?” 

His reply is a dry laugh. “Sometimes. She wanted to learn how to fight. Past the basics.” This time he looks at Steve tentatively. “Mostly how to get out of restraints.”

_ “They put her in a straight jacket. I’m not letting them anywhere near her." _

Natasha had bitten out a retort that left his skin stinging with words that left welts.  _ “That isn’t up to you or me.” _

_ “The hell it isn’t,”  _ he’d snapped back. _"She's staying here."_ And that had been the end of it. 

His hips hit a low countertop when he bows his head into his hands. “God, kid.”

“Did she say anything?” Natasha asks levelly, no doubt recalling the same conversation, hours before they’d left. Before they’d last seen her. 

“Yeah. She wasn’t feeling good so we decided to do some stretches instead. Meditation, the works.”

Sam scoffs again, rolling his eyes. “Not retired, my ass.”

This time he isn’t rewarded anything more than a wry smile, patronizing and sarcastic. There’s enough of Bucky in that one action that he almost forgets that he’s smiling at the former husk of the Winter Soldier. “She said she’d been feeling off. Real spacey, losing time, forgetting things. I thought it was just the excitement.”

Steve turns, eyes narrowing. “The excitement?” he echoes. 

“T’Challa’s been keeping some things under wraps. Something to do with the vibranium. In the mines.”

That’s where it comes from. As much time as he spends back and forth between the country and the rest of the world, it surprises him that that’s all he knows about them. He’s never been, never even seen them. He knows that they’re heavily guarded (understatement) and that great measures are taken to account for every gram mined and consumed. It's all very secretive and exact; it makes his head hurt.

“So what does he have to do with this,” he sighs, waving his hand and rubbing his eyes.

He feels Bucky's frown on his neck, feels the heat of his gaze and tastes rosemary again. “No clue,” he says gruffly.  “He held off both you and T’Challa without breaking a sweat, Steve.”

There’s a heat that may or may not be a blush across his face. “He’s stronger than he looks.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, leaning on the table. “No shit. What do we know?”

Natasha swipes a finger in the air and the holographic display ignites the center of the room. 

He knows that Wakanda has cutting-edge technology (also an understatement) and that they move fast, but the volume of raw data before them is more than enough to pull an awed grunt out of him. Nat scrolls through blood tests, preliminary x-rays, and MRIs. “Young. Probably seventeen or eighteen. Highly skilled in espionage and combat. Particularly Aikido and Kali.” 

“He’s American,” Bucky adds. He’s looking down at a holographic picture of the kid’s armor. Readouts and specifics pop up in real time through his fingers, analysis on the material suspended in midair before he scrolls to the next. “Someplace north.”

“New England?” Sam asks and he shakes his head. 

“No. Farther west. Michigan or Wisconsin.”

Steve tips his head, eyes still scouring the plethora of medical tests. “How do you figure?”

He swipes up and a primitive model of the suit projects into the center of the room. “His gear,” he explains, pointing to the shoulders and cape specifically. “It’s heavy. Suited for colder weather. Wind.”

“What’s a Midwest kid doing in Wakanda?” Sam muses. Bucky passes him the digital papers in his hands, looking back at the wall of information. 

The whole thing rubs him the wrong way. Sam’s question just echoes his own: what the hell is a teenager with this skill set doing halfway around the world—and alone? 

He doesn’t know anyone like him. Maybe Tony’s kid from Leipzig, the Spider-Kid from Brooklyn, but this one is much more somber, battle weary and a bit too old, he thinks. Not that he would put it past Tony—or Ross—to send him a kid to take pity on. Someone like Wanda. 

For a moment, anger churns in his stomach. 

“Have they ID’d him yet?” he asks. 

Nat shakes her head. “He’s young. He’s not going to be in any kind of federal database.”

Sam looks up from the readouts in his lap, one leg tucked under the other in some sort of half Indian-style position. He shakes a pen at them, the cap balanced between his teeth. “What about Project: Insight? The targeting algorithm HYDRA used.”

Bucky freezes and Nat looks between them with an unreadable expression. “Insight eliminates threats,” Steve says slowly, unsure of where Sam intends to lead them but the airman just rolls his eyes. 

“I mean repurpose the algorithm. It’s still out there, right? If anything, I’m sure Kit-Kat can whip one up. Set the parameters to match whatever we’ve got on this kid: residence, combat experience…” 

He trails off, watching Bucky reach up to a window at the top of the display and maximizing it. 

It’s a live-feed of an empty room. Empty except for the table, chairs, and lone occupant staring right into the camera. 

 

* * *

 

It’s been a long time since Steve has seen her face so impassive and intimidating—even longer since he’s watched her work. He’s intimately aware of the tricks Natasha has up her sleeves, useful for making even the most stoic man crack like an egg. “Hello.” It's an easy enough start. “My name is Natasha Romanoff. I’m just going to ask you a few questions if that’s alright with you.” There’s no response, no acknowledgment at all from their captive. His eyes are blue, Steve can see now and the wind has blown a burn along a line matching that of his cowl. He stares straight ahead, right through Nat. “Do you know where you are?” 

Nothing. He runs his thumb across his lip, willing some kind of reaction from the kid.  _ Nothing. _

“Even I had a hard time getting into this place undetected, and I’d like to think that I’m good at what I do,” she continues conversationally. She leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out under the table until they’re only a knee-jerk away from touching the kid’s. “So how did you do it? Cargo? Fraud?” Her arms cross and Steve can’t help but do the same, regarding the boy with the same expectant patience.  “Even with the change in security protocols and foreign policy, this is not an easy place to get into.” She lets it drag out before casting a line. “Especially not people like us.”

He expects something as small as an eye twitch from that, a hitched breath or flicker of uncertainty but  _ nothing.  _

He knows Natasha. No matter how strong her acting and how unbreakable the facade she puts up, the initial reaction to any of her advances is apprehension. Something about her comes off as sly, fox-like no matter how hard she tries to hide it and she uses it to her advantage. The kid obviously has experience in espionage and while Steve’s never come across SHIELD or HYDRA’s notably  _ younger  _ agents, he’s the picture that comes to mind. 

He’s got a young face and Steve can only hope that he’s older than he looks. Long black hair falls into his eyes, parting down the middle to frame them. The locks are silky, resting at the base of his skull but long enough in the front to sweep behind his ears. His eyes are a sharper blue than Clint’s, a color that reminds him of Iron Man’s arc reactor, of Loki’s blue scepter but there’s no hint of the feverish craze. Without the cloak he’s even smaller, his entire ensemble traded for slacks too baggy and a shirt too long. His wrists are tiny too, small and scarred underneath the vibranium cuffing them to the table. 

Scars that mirror the rest of his body: bruised and battle-worn. Whoever the kid is, this isn’t his first rodeo by a long shot. 

“Your tech is very advanced for someone your age. Did you build it yourself?” she continues as if she’d never stopped. Her chin balances in her hands and he still doesn’t look at her. Not really. “It doesn’t look like SHIELD issue.” She nods at her sidearm, placed harmlessly between them. The kid’s wrists are narrow enough, gun pushed close enough that if he really wanted to, he could grab it—probably before Natasha could move. “Where’d you get it? Stark Industries? Hammer?” She leans back, crosses her arms and tips her head. “Pym?” No response. Her green eyes narrow slightly. “What about Oscorp?”

Steve leans towards Bucky whose own arms are crossed across his broad chest. “What is she doing? Oscorp doesn’t manufacture weaponry. They’re in pharmaceuticals—bioengineering.” 

Bucky chews his lip. He doesn’t know what Oscorp or Hammer Tech even is but he knows Natasha. In some ways, better than he does. “They’re American companies. She wants him to correct her. Confirm that he’s from the States, or at least knows that much.” 

He watches the interaction through the one-way glass, the kid’s vitals displayed in a glowing font. “You think he’s an amnesiac?” he asks quietly after a moment. These days he doesn’t really know what goes on in Bucky’s head.

“We’ll see.” 

“Aikido,” Nat continues on the other side. “You’re pretty good at it. A heavy mix of Kali, Muay Thai, Hapkido, guerilla tactics, it all shows years of experience. And your gear. Very unique.” Her tone is almost impressed but Steve’s heard it well enough to recognize the frayed edges of her words. She leans forward, producing something from what looks like thin air. The kid’s eyes move down to her cupped palm. 

The yellow buckle from his suit lays flat in her hand. It’s circular and rimmed with a sweeping image. A bird. “This symbol. What does it mean?”

She waits patiently, just like she had after all her other questions. This time, however, he answers. “Red Robin.”

His voice is deep for someone so small and slight. Without his cowl, it seems almost fitting. 

“Like the restaurant?” Natasha asks humorlessly, an eyebrow raised. 

This time he looks at her— _ really  _ looks. Steve watches the cornflower irises snap up onto the green like he’d never lost them in the first place. Under the table, Nat’s knee jerks to the side. Although minuscule, both men in the observation room zero in on it, as if it were a flashing billboard in the middle of the Mojave. “Like the  _ Bat,”  _ the kid says and there’s a well-hidden note of cynicism. He isn’t even sure if it’s really there or if he imagined it. 

She leans back again, completely docile. Steve’s eyes narrow. “What does that mean?”

Bucky shifts in his chair. “He’s American.” When Steve doesn’t respond, he elaborates. “‘The Bat.’ It’s a person. Someone he looks up to.”

“How do you know that?” 

“Because he’s interrogating us too.” His voice darkens and his eyes flick over. “He’s name-dropping.”

Nat scoffs lightly, a sound he’s come to associate more closely with her partner. “The Bat, huh? All the way out here?” Her tone changes then, looking him straight in the eye. “Look, I’m your only chance of making it out of here with just a couple of bruises. We know you’re on a time crunch. If you want to get back to your  _ Bat  _ in one piece, you should work with us.

“Someone trained you. Your skill set isn't something someone teaches themselves over the weekend. You were raised like this. Was it him? Was it the Bat?” 

There’s no answer except for a very tiny muscle twitch in the boy’s jaw. Whoever trained him did a damn good job. Nat must think the same thing because she looks away, voice softened. She sounds almost motherly and it catches the kid off guard too, if only for a second. “You’re young. Like I was. You don’t need to defend him.”

“Is he like her?” Steve asks. 

Bucky’s jaw works in circles before he sets a fist on the counter. “The Red Room only recruited female valentine agents and he’s not enhanced. I wouldn’t be surprised though. Pierce kept a lot from me.”

But neither of them would put it past him. 

“Who are you running from?” Nat continues. She leans forward now, not quite holding his slender hands in her own, but close enough that the sentiment is more than evident. “What are you doing so far from home?”

There’s a war of emotions across the kid’s face and for a split second, Steve thinks that she’s finally broken him. But his eyes shut out again, nose flaring and jaw set. Bucky sighs. 

He lets his gaze fall over the kid again. He’s willowy but strong. He’s built like Loki had been: slender and angular. Everything below his chin is sharp and defined, from corded muscle to the bones in his ankles. But he’s  _ human.  _ There’s nothing about him that lends any evidence to the contrary. He moves like a soldier, like a weapon but not in the way that Wanda does. No—he moves exactly like Natasha does and maybe that’s what’s throwing her off. It’s like looking into a mirror. Into the past. 

“Ross sent you.” 

It’s a stab in the dark that surprises both men, but it gets a reaction, intentional or otherwise. 

The scoff is blank and unreadable without its accompanying half-smirk. Thin, busted lips pull up on one side, painting a grueling picture of casual denial. “No one sent me.”

“Then who are you?” she challenges. “You don’t mean harm, yet you fought us to a stand-still. Tell me, if you’re not the enemy, who are you?” The kid looks away and he can’t see his face. “If you don’t talk to me, I can’t help you.”

The door opening behind them is what sends both soldiers to their feet, and no sooner than necessary. 

“Let me in—“ Barton demands unsteadily. His shoulder catches the door and he falls uncoordinated into Bucky’s arms. Even from there, Steve can smell him: like ozone and burnt plastic, an odd combination but starkly reminiscent of Wanda’s magic. 

“Whoa, whoa! Wilson, I thought you were watching the door,” Bucky says through clenched teeth and a scrunched nose. 

Sam looks about the same, bewildered and incredulous all at once. “I was, he threatened to throw up on me.”

Steve swallows the irritation and confusion, taking the archers elbows into his hands and righting him slowly. “Clint, you have to sit down. You’ve had a concussion—“

The snap wouldn’t be a surprise if it had a semblance of friendliness or humor. Instead, the retort is dipped in hostility, dragging on this inside of his gut. “It wasn’t a fucking concussion, Steve.”

Bucky frowns and moves to reach out. “Sit down, Barton. Don’t make me do this.”

Clint’s snap is immediate and cold. “You put your hands on me and I’ll make you wish you were still HYDRA’s chew toy.”

No one speaks and the room seems to hold its breath for Bucky’s response which turns out to be a tight-lipped silence. Anger simmers in his stomach and he grips Clint’s elbow none too gently. “Clint. That’s enough. Get out.”

Bucky waves him off, prying his hands away and grabbing Clint’s shoulder anyway. “It’s fine, Steve. Why do you want in? Are you gonna kill him?”

The archer’s eyes are bright but unclouded. He looks more awake than he has in the past few days. “I know what he wants.”

“I can help you if you—“

Steve crosses his arms tightly, shoulder brushing Bucky’s while they watch Clint charge into the interrogation room. He bites his lip as both occupants look sharply at the door. He recognizes the tightness in the kid’s muscles, the strain and relaxation as his fight-or-flight response kicks into action. He doesn’t have a choice of either when Clint stares at him straight on, completely disregarding Natasha in favor of icy, cornflower eyes. “Do you know who I am?” 

“Clint—“ 

He ignores her, repeating himself urgently and for the first time, Steve sees the whisper of emotion in the kid’s face. Bucky curses under his breath. “Do you recognize me?” he asks softer. 

His back straightens and Steve imagines that if he could stand, he would. “I—yes.”

“What?” Natasha looks back and forth between them. She stands abruptly, hand on Hawkeye’s shoulder but he doesn’t even acknowledge her. 

The kid leans forward, arms sliding through the cuffs until they catch. “You need to take me to Tony Stark.”

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t seem to register Nat’s nails digging into his skin. He just takes a step forward, demanding with a careful quake in his voice. “Can he stop it?”

“If he can’t then we’re going to die.” This time, he looks at Natasha. He turns his head and looks at the one-way mirror, straight into Steve’s eyes and his mouth goes dry. “My name is Red Robin. And I need to speak with Tony Stark.” 

Steve’s hand slams down on the console and the window goes black. The audio cuts off and they’re left in the dark with the single red bulb above their heads. The air is thick and he thinks he might faint again, like there are drugs in his blood. 

“Is he lying?” he demands, only turning back and barking when he receives no answer. “Buck! What does he mean?”

The door opens again the Steve is the one to whirl around, expecting Sam’s worried face. Instead, it’s T’Challa. 

“Captain, there’s been an incident in New York.”

Bucky’s voice sounds from somewhere deep in his throat that he hasn’t heard since before he fell into the ice. He’s still staring at the opaque glass, right where the kid is sitting on the other side. And his words send rocks into his stomach. “Tell me you still have that phone.”


	5. /thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A guy asked me a question the other day. About why people run when things get tough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains a bit of violence. Bruce gets a bit rough with someone he shouldn’t. Nothing too serious but it’s a bit abusive. 
> 
> No one gets hurt but if you’re sensitive to any tones of domestic violence/child abuse, the interaction happens between, “The shot reports a thousand times...” and “There isn’t enough time to gratify a response...”

He’s a strange child.

His mind is a garden—not a forest or an unkept jungle like most he’s explored. No—the child’s mind is orderly and neat. His thoughts come swift, but they’re never without purpose. It’s… unsettling. It’s perfect.

“Hello?”

Even when he dreams his thoughts are linear and focused.

He doesn’t show himself yet. Only what he needs to know. The farther he gets, the weaker the connection gets. He won’t have this hold forever but he can’t cross. Not without turning heads, some that he can’t afford turning right now. She followed him and chased his trail long enough for him to close the door behind her. It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that the boy finds them.

They’d stand a chance. More of a chance than he ever stood alone.

“Loki? Are you here?”

He’s a smart child. A strong one. He’ll survive a while longer.

For the sake of the universe, he’d have to.

 

* * *

 

He could’ve listened in on any conversation. He could’ve heard all about the League’s little covert missions and everything that happened “off-camera.” He could've had dirt on every single one of them.

But he didn’t.

In fact, he’d forgotten that the bug was even in there. It’s a little thing, something Lucius had designed for him (because God knows he can’t engineer something of that caliber himself). It was simple enough to tack underneath Hal’s seat when he wasn’t paying attention.

Back when he was the one in the Cowl.

When Bruce was the dead one.

His chest shakes for a horrifying moment before he can get himself back under control. His cheeks are still wet and his jaw hurts like a motherfucker but he doubts that he’s out of tears for the night.

He’s crammed into a small corner of the Watchtower, virtually inaccessible to someone who isn’t as small or limber as him. It’s out of the way, probably a design flaw of some sort but it’s spacious enough for him to sit with his earbuds in without being seen.

 _“Where are Hal, Diana, and J’onn?”_ Clark’s voice sounds faint at first and the mic’s quality leaves something to be desired. The trade-off, he guesses, for an undetectable bug prototype: short-range and shitty audio.

 _“Off-world. They’ll be here shortly.”_ Arthur. Undoubtedly. He fits the nail of his thumb between his teeth and wonders where Garth could be. If he’s okay.

 _“I don’t remember there being an off-world mission discussed.”_ He’s louder now, probably passing Hal’s seat. He sounds tired, overworked, maybe slightly pissed off. Dick doesn’t blame him.

_“It wasn’t. Hal said it was personal. They went to Oa.”_

_“Well, this is personal. I want to know what happened.”_

_“We all do, Canary.”_

His phone buzzes underneath his thigh. 

> _1 unread voicemail from_ dami’s girl

For a moment he supposes he’s intrigued. She’s never called him before, and he left her his number only to use in case of emergency. Of course, he wouldn’t put it past her to call for something as urgent as a drowning goldfish. He turns back to his snooping.

_“We need to put a timeline together. Where did she hit first?”_

There’s a pause long enough that he checks to make sure his headphones are still working, then—

_“I think that’s me.”_

_“Barry—“_ Dinah’s voice cuts out to the sound of scuffling and a pained gasp. _“Why didn’t you say something?”_

Wally had been fine. He knew that. He made sure of it as soon as he’d been able to breathe again, because once word got around that there were attacks not just in Gotham, but all over the world—well, the crime-fighting community panicked almost as bad as the civilian population.

He’d opened up a line to his team the moment he was able to. All but one had answered his call.

 _“It’s fine, just give me a couple hours.”_ The silence is filled with apprehension and he can almost see the look they must share over Barry’s head. _“I can wait.”_

An unexpected voice joins the fray.

_“The timeline.”_

If he hadn’t known the sound of Bruce’s voice as well as his own, he would’ve assumed that the gruff demand had belonged to him.

But it’s Arrow. He drops his head into his chest and digs his nails into his fist. If he’s here, then Roy _has_ to be okay. Oliver wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t. He wants to ask Lilith to reach out and contact him but he holds back for now, knowing that it would only piss Roy off, especially considering the crowd he runs with now.

 _“She hit the Pipeline,”_ Barry says on the other end.

 _“Iron Heights?”_ Aquaman echoes. Garth must have returned to Atlantis in his place.

_“Yeah.”_

There’s a beat of silence before Clark probes gently. _“Barry. Were there any casualties?”_

He hates how he leans in for the answer, how his heart pounds in his ears.

 _“Not yet,”_ comes the answer. He releases his breath shakily. _“Wally says that Wolfe is still in surgery. It’s not looking good.”_

Wally has told him about Wolfe before: always made him out to be a real hardass, and by the sound of guilt and conflict in Barry’s voice, he’s inclined to believe it. Wolfe apparently had a mean streak and a rap for strict punishment against metas. Never really crossed into cruel, but tended to toe the line if Wally’s stories were anything to go off of. The kind of man that The Bat would have it out for.

_“He is a strong man. He’ll pull through.”_

“Z.” He breathes the letter through his teeth, eyes squeezing shut against her voice. It’s sweeter than he remembers, older and wiser.

As far as he knows, Zatanna hasn’t been to the Watchtower in years. She still kept her place on the team but nowadays she just preferred to keep to herself, which is fine of course but… he missed her.

They were never close by any means but Zatanna Zatara has always been his rock although she likely never knew it. Being in the Cowl has been hard, especially when they turned to him for direction. Z acted as his compass, his North Star when he got a little lost. And with her in the room it was always a bit easier to breathe.

_“That was around seven-forty, central time.”_

_“That means she hit Shadowcrest next.”_ There’s the sound of shifting before she speaks again. _“I don’t know the death count. All I know is… it’s a lot.”_ She’d been in London. Shadowcrest has the tendency to move places on its own: San Francisco, Sydney, Beijing, New Orleans, or on the cliffs of Dover, Siberian forests, deep into the Rockies. This time it just happened to be somewhere significantly more populated. He can hear the blame in her voice and drops his head to his knees. _“I can confirm… one.”_

_“I’ll let them know, Z,”_

He doesn’t know what the interaction is in regards to, but he doesn’t have the chance to dwell, Zatanna’s voice turning determined.

_“She seemed to know about me. She knew my name.”_

_“Did she want anything?”_

_“Whatever it was, she knew I didn’t have it, or at least thought so.”_ There’s another pause and her voice grows slightly more faint. _“I think she went to Themyscira next.”_

Someone scoffs, and Superman must shake his head. _“She had to have only been there for five minutes, tops.”_

Z replies curtly. _“Maybe that’s all the time she needed.”_

 _“Superman, no one's been able to get a hold of Troy or Wonder Girl.”_ Dinah.

 _I have,_ Dick answers silently. At least the former. She’d been with Lilith at their apartment in New Orleans. He doesn’t doubt that she’s on her way here, or to the base of operations they’d abandoned in Happy Harbor.

 _“I can go,”_ Z volunteers _._

 _“No,”_ Clark shuts her down like he’d been expecting it—which he probably was. _“It’s too dangerous right now, I don’t want anyone leaving the Watchtower until we have a better handle on things.”_ He hesitates. _“The Amazonians are strong. They’ll be fine.”_

And well, he’s not wrong. But he sounds like he thinks he is.

Not for the first time, the guilt stabs him sharp; for not being able to be there with them, for hiding and spying like a coward. _Not yet._ Not when his eyes are still wet, when the tears still catch in his throat when he talks.

The swath of purple cloth braided around his wrist occupies his fingers when they start to shake.

_“Ok. So after Themyscira…”_

_“Seattle. Then Gotham.”_

Seattle. What happened in Seattle?

Both Dinah and Oliver neglect to answer before Z demands loudly and suddenly. _“Batman—“_ The volume wavers in and out due to no fault of technology. _“Is he—“_

Clark manages to interrupt her before she can go on. _“Batman is fine.”_ A relative term for everyone tonight. _“She attacked Arkham. So far, police have uncovered fourteen bodies.”_ Fourteen bodies. Fifteen mistakes. _“Spoiler is dead.”_

He hates how he says her name, like he’s scared or nervous. _Spoiler._ Because ‘Spoiler’ and ‘dead’ don’t go together and they never will. Not without the taste of blood and bile in his mouth.

His stomach turns and the tears he pushes back are hot.

 _“She came to Atlantis.”_ It takes a moment to put together that Aquaman isn’t talking about Stephanie. _“She asked for a cube.”_

_“A motherbox?”_

_“I don’t know. But she gave us a name: Proxima Midnight.”_

_“Zatanna—“_

_“I can look, but it doesn’t sound familiar.”_

No. It doesn’t. Even after wracking his memory for any sliver of information that might prove helpful: nada. Even mentally leading through the research at Tim’s he’d uncovered, nothing seemed to connect. Kyle would know. He could ask the ring and it would tell him.

_“Arrow.”_

_“What?”_ It’s that same gravel-gargling growl from before.

Dinah answers. _“She attacked the Q-Core HQ.”_ There’s a beat that Dick finds himself dreading for no reason in particular until the next words drop. _“Connor—Connor was inside.”_

Oh.

Oh, _Roy._

_“Oliver. Did she say anything about—“_

_“About what she wanted?”_ He imagines that a chair would scrape if they’d been designed to do that. Oliver’s voice is pure rage, just untapped grief, boiling over the edge. _“No. And if we’re all done with this little briefing—“_

_“We’re not.”_

He tenses despite himself, breath catching.

Bruce could be a diva when he wanted to. He’s one of those people that you could never notice, but also one that you couldn’t take your eyes off.

He sounds angry, and when Bruce is angry, well—everyone knows.

He can imagine the pull he has on everyone’s gaze, all of them staring open-mouthed at him while he scowls and glares at them.

_“Batman.”_

He ignores her. He’s sure of it. _“Zatanna won’t find anything about Midnight in Shadowcrest, and neither will the Atlanteans or Amazons. She came through a breach.”_

Barry sounds dumbfounded and there’s the sound of fabric moving, like he’s turning to fix Batman with an incredulous raised eyebrow. _“A breach. Like, a breach breach?”_

_“Before the attack on Arkham, there was a spike in unstable tachyon energy. The resulting explosion must have wounded her and closed the breach.”_

Z scoffs and he fits his face into his elbow while she echoes his denial. _“That’s impossible, to open a breach you need a crazy amount of power—“_

_“Are you saying she wasn’t powerful?”_

The silence between them is stony and he knows without even being there that the two are staring each other down.

 _“No, that’s like, the opposite of what I’m saying.”_ Her words bite him even over the speaker. They have a history, he knows that. The kind of “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours” history that Bruce had tried to keep under wraps during his Robin days. He almost scoffs. For someone so strict about not sleeping with teammates, she’s the third that he knows about.

 _“That much energy just walking around and appearing places, we would have known,”_ Barry redirects.

_“We would’ve if it was pure tachyon energy. It wasn’t.”_

_“Then what was it?”_ Arthur challenges. Impatience plays on the ends of his words.

_“I don’t know.”_

Barry sighs. _“This is all great, but we still don’t know what she wants. ‘The cube?’ Does she mean a Rubik's Cube or a motherbox?”_

 _“And how did she know where to find us all?”_ Aquaman adds with a growl.

Zatanna sounds exhausted. Granted, they all do, but the magician sounds truly at the end of her rope. _“Shadowcrest can’t be found without serious magic. But she certainly wasn’t Magi.”_

 _“Sheer power can nullify cloaking spells, can they not?”_ Bruce.

_“Not my spells.”_

_“But they can.”_

_“Occasionally,”_ she finally bites out. _“Her strength puts her on a cosmic level. And her lance. It’s—“_

_“Nothing compared to what she might be bringing.”_

The silence in the room is sudden and thick until Oliver asks, _“What do you mean?”_

_“Thanos. She said that if I gave up the cube, that Thanos would spare me.”_

_“And who exactly is Thanos…?”_

That’s the million-dollar question.

The door must open because it’s a new voice that interrupts the conversation. _“We turned back as soon as we heard the news—“_

_“Oliver!”_

_“Arrow!”_

Movement erupts to loudly on the other end that he winces and momentarily lowers the volume. Something slams against something else. Judging by the cream of metal, it’s either the wall or the table.

Oliver’s snarl is deep with fury and he thinks he hears someone gag. _“What kind of mess did you get us into, Jordan? I swear to God, I’ll kill you right here.”_

Clark is virtually screaming and there’s more scuffling up feet. Something bangs hard on the ground and there’s a fit of coughing. _“Queen! Let him go!”_ Then to the side, _“Canary, calm him down!”_

He thinks it’s Hal coughing up a lung, managing to snarl, _“What the fuck—“_

 _“Back off,”_ Clark bites. Dick can’t help the scoff. No matter what either of them say, Clark may be 80% of Bruce’s impulse control, but Bruce is undoubtedly 80% of Clark’s spine. Regardless, the Lantern must listen well enough because the line goes silent.

Batman’s gruff demand is what breaks the frigid quiet. _“What the hell happened?”_

Hal snorts _“You first, Bats. You look like shit.”_

_“Hal…”_

_“What happened?”_ This voice is like Z’s, soft and matronly with a steel edge of finality. _Diana._

She’s met with stiff reluctance until Zatanna answers her. _“The League was attacked.”_

 _“Is anyone hurt?”_ That’s J’onn. They’re all back.

He feels like everything’s going to be okay again.

And then Clark answers.

_“Spoiler, Starfire, and Connor Hawke are dead. As of now, there have been at least 41 civilian casualties. Most of them being at the attack on Q-Core and Arkham Asylum...”_

There’s more that he doesn’t hear because the blood rushing in his ears drowns it out.

His world falls out from under him all over again, but this time it’s worse.

He thinks he knew.

_The Outlaws are taking a break._

Was she alone? Did she suffer?

_I can confirm one._

Was she with Roy? When she was in London with Zatanna? Did she fight?

_I’ll let them know._

Is it true?

He wants to know it all. To wake up.

There’s no comparable pain to the one shredding apart his chest. Not Joker Venom, not Crane’s fear toxin, none of Ivy’s deadly poisons, _nothing._ And he’d endure an eternity of them all to ensure the contrary.

_Kori is dead._

_His_ Kori.

Maybe he feels himself crumbling, ripping apart at the seams. And maybe it’ll kill him.

God, he hopes it kills him.

 

“Bruce…”

If he didn’t know it before, he definitely knew it now. He really should kick Clark for saying it, for making it real. He’s just doing his job. They all are. Right?

They’re all looking at him, and when they aren’t they’re looking at Arrow. Like they’re brittle, about to break.

Oliver has murder in his eyes, not quite as good at hiding his anger as Bruce is. He glares at Jordan with enough venom to bring down Doomsday, all while Canary holds him, biting harsh words that fall on deaf ears.

Barry looks so desperate to stand that for a moment, Bruce thinks he’ll actually try it. But the speedster stays in his chair, crestfallen. He and Hal share a look that Bruce averts his gaze from. The relationship they share is complicated—almost as complicated as his and Clark’s, and they only think they’re good at keeping it a secret. He watches them communicate something intimate through a single look before they go back to pretending to ignore each other. He has to admit, they do a good job of it.

Diana won’t stop staring at him. She’s always been able to see straight through him and he hates it. The sooner he can get this over with, the sooner he can get to work and away from everyone.

Zatara can’t choose between looking at him or the floor and he wishes that she’d just decide already.

J’onn just looks concerned.

None of them know just how pissed off it’s making him.

He speaks before the thoughts start to snowball into dangerous places. “Jordan, does the name ‘Proxima Midnight’ mean anything to you?”

The Lantern blinks at him, eyes dark and bruised from exhaustion.

Already, bruises are starting to form on the column of his neck. But there are also ones that Oliver hadn’t put there, ones that cut into the line of his jaw, red and purple. It hurts him to swallow; his eyelids flutter with every breathe and even his voice sounds like pain.

“I—uh.” His hand moves to massage his throat before he changes his mind, sliding his fingers behind his neck instead. “No.”

“What about ‘Thanos?’”

His eyebrows furrow and he closes his eyes, almost wincing. He holds a hand up. “Wait. Just slow down.”

“Answer the goddamned question, Jordan!” Arrow lashes out again, this time managing to surge forward abruptly enough that it catches Dinah off guard, J’onn swiftly moving in to help.

Superman barks at him angrily, voice dipping into a faint midwestern twang. Nevertheless, he situates himself discreetly in between Hal and the archer. “Could you just back off for a second!”

“Where the hell were you?” he snarls. He tries to knock J’onn over the head and the martian lets him get one good hit in before shutting him down. Clark considers sparring with J’onn a considerably difficult workout when neither of them are holding back too much so once he starts putting force behind his grip, Oliver really doesn’t stand a chance.

“Oliver, you need to calm down,” J’onn says evenly, not even straining when he holds the blond’s wrists in his hands.

He just continues like he’d never spoken, glaring right past Clark. “Answer me.”

Zatanna moves up to Hal’s shoulder to stop him should he rise to Oliver’s challenge but she shouldn’t have bothered. The Lantern just sets his jaw, gaze darkening enough that it actually shuts Ollie up.

“Kyle.”

Clark turns. “What?”

“Simon and Jess found Kyle’s body at the edge of the sector.”

At that, Bruce finds himself shouldering past Zatara, ignoring her interjection. He doesn’t know why; he doesn’t think he really cares about the answer. Not now at least. Not today. “Body…?”

Hal looks at him and there’s no sign of the arrogant pilot he’s used to seeing. This close, he can see the red rims of his eyes—not from crying, but from exhaustion. The dark circles aren’t bruises, they’re bags. “He still had his ring. He’s alive but…” At that he looks away, glances at Oliver for a moment who’s fallen silent. “The kid’s good at what he does—he’s a better Lantern than I’ll ever be. Something fucked him up good.”

Oliver rips himself out of J’onn’s grip and he lets him stalk to the far wall, quiet until he slams his fist into the metal. The sound is hollow, cold and familiar.

“Has he said anything?” Barry asks timidly, finally speaking up. He looks small in his chair, hardly able to swing it around to face them.

He looks back at Bruce. “Yeah. ‘Thanos.’”

He thinks his head swims.

Something goes black and loud, blood pulsing in his ears and he loses a couple seconds. Or minutes. But when he’s coming back, it’s with Diana in front of him, gripping his biceps and just watching him. Always _watching._

Something comes over him and he shoves her away.

He knows that if she wanted to, she could throw him halfway across the Watchtower with a flick of her wrist but for some reason, she lets him push her with a sad frown that only pisses him off even more.

It’s nothing compared to the look Clark is giving him.

“Whoever he ran into did a big number on him. We don’t know if he’s going to wake up,” Jordan is saying. He doesn’t look away quickly enough for Bruce to put together that he’d waited to continue. “I had to take someone to Oa to identify him and sweep the area.” He pushes past Clark after a beat of unsure silence, and he can see Clark hesitate, stopping himself from reaching for his elbow. “Oliver, man, you gotta believe me, I didn’t know what was coming—if I had—“

Oliver cuts him off, a dry hate in his voice. “Who attacked him?”

Hal just swallows, both from hesitance and hurt. “We don’t know. But…”

“What?” Bruce growls, both to Hal and Diana when she creeps closer to him.

“He breached.” His hands fall limp at his sides and an angry frustration seeps into his words. “I don’t know how or where but he did and I think whatever happened, he got spit out in the end.” He paces for a moment and Bruce crosses his arms, watching him let out a broken sigh and slumping into a chair—Barry’s. “I should’ve been here.”

The speedster gazes at Hal with a tortured look and his fingers twitch on the table. “You didn’t know, man.”

Diana steps forward, eyes dark and arms crossed. “Have you gotten word from Themyscira?”

Bruce responds. “Donna’s on her way. She says everyone is safe. No one was hurt.”

“Yet,” Zatanna says quietly and Oliver adds a grunt.

He knew that Diana had already been planning to go check on her sisters. She—like him—has only been waiting for the appropriate excuse. Diana is predictable like that so he’s already stepping out of her way. “I have to leave.”

Superman shakes his head and steps into the middle of the heroes. “Hold on. With this many heroes out of commision, I want to speak with Batman and Wonder Woman about keeping the Watchtower manned 24/7 until we know more about this woman.”

Barry looks back at him. “We’ve got people to go home to Supes. She did a lot of damage to Central City and Gotham. San Francisco, New York, we can’t just hide up here.”

Dinah’s voice betrays nothing of her inner turmoil. She’s got a much better grasp on it than she does on her husband who still glares daggers at Hal and J’onn. “The people are gonna want a statement, Clark.” She grabs Oliver’s hand behind her back and it's the first crack he’s seen from her all night. “He’s right, we can’t ignore them.”

Hal flexes his first on the table before looking up with a nod. “I think Superman is right.”

“Of course you do,” Oliver scoffs. “Haven’t you done enough sitting around, Lantern?”

“You wanna go right now, Queen?”

“Happily.”

Clark raises his voice. “That’s enough.” His gaze is icy and leaves no room for argument. It’s the look that Bruce himself usually uses. “I’m pulling everyone in. Let everyone know we’re on high alert and cancel all off-world missions. We’ll take shifts going down to the surface, three-fourths of the League stays on board and on call at all times until we find this thing.”

No one moves. No one dares to. Because what kind of asshole talks back to _Superman?_ “Dismissed.”

He is. Bruce is that asshole.

The room clears out quick after that. J’onn heads down to the infirmary with Barry in tow. Arthur nods silently and disappears with Zatanna down one hall or another. Clark gives him a sharp look that has his blood simmering before ducking his head with Dinah and Oliver.

“How are you doing, Bruce?” Diana asks softly. The hand on his shoulder turns him back to the table and away from the door.

“Fine.” He turns to Hal who still sits his head in his hands. “We need to look at the possibility that we could be dealing with Darkseid.”

The pilot shakes his head. “Darkseid doesn’t play games like this. If it was him we would know.”

Diana chews her lip and tips her head. “Then it could be someone of his caliber.”

“Right now, we need to focus on regrouping and finding out more about our next move.” Superman comes up behind him, too close to his shoulder. He bites down the hiss of anger and tries to step out of the way but there’s a hand on his wrist holding him down.

“I’ll start an uplink with Oa. Star Labs does a lot of research on tachyon devices. I’ll cross-reference atmospheric disturbances with tachyon feeds for the last twenty-four hours.” Hal pushes back from the table and after a hesitant nod to the trinity, he leaves on heavy feet.

“Bruce,” Clark growls under his breath when he tries to pull away again. “If she took out a Lantern on her own then we’re dealing with something big.”

He finally worms his way out of Clark’s grip, stops himself from putting a batarang to his neck; a professional courtesy. Diana averts her eyes from the exchange but she can’t reel in the sigh through her nose. “That’s if Midnight was the one that did it,” he says tightly.

Diana blinks. “You think it could’ve been something else?”

“Until we know for sure, it could’ve been anyone.” He puts half the table between him and Clark, makes a show of adjusting his gauntlet. “Rayner is one of the best Lanterns the Corps has. The League has to be careful about this.”

“I know. That’s why you’re on the first rotation.”

He expects to see shock on Clark’s face when he turns around, or some sort of regret because that’s what usually happens when he tries to order him around like some recruit. So when all he gets back is a wall of Kryptonian steel and determination, he has to give him props.

He didn’t think that Clark actually had the balls.

“Excuse me?” he asks after a long moment of stiff silence.

He doesn’t expect Diana stepping in between them with open palms and a wary frown like some sort of caged animal. “At least twelve hours of rest, Bruce.” His face must twist because in the next second she looks exasperated.  “It’s the same for Oliver.”

“Diana and I will hold down the fort. If anything happens we’ll call,” he says evenly, coming up beside her.

“That isn’t up to you,” he says. He keeps his voice low.

Diana casts a careful look over his shoulder and sighs. “No. It’s not. But I agree with him.”

“This is ridiculous,” he says, making a move to leave.

This time it’s Diana that grabs loosely onto his wrist. He tenses so suddenly that she backs off. He’s sick of them manhandling him. Sick of them treating like he’s any less capable than them at handling this. The look she gives him is sharp.  “You need to rest. You’ve been up for almost thirty-six hours.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Clark releases a dry scoff that makes him narrow his eyes. “Wow, I didn’t know you were getting into stand-up.”

“We’re not asking, Bruce.”

This time she lets him pull all the way back. He could stalk out now and they wouldn't be able to stop him. He moves to do just that. “Neither am I.”

“Listen.” Clark is in his way again. He’s got this troubled, kicked-puppy look about him, like he’s afraid of the backlash of his words and Bruce steels himself. “It’s been seven hours. You need to go home and see the boys. I know you’re still in denial and it’s going to take some time, but—“

He lowers his chin and narrows his eyes. “I’m not a damsel in distress, Kent. And my emotional state is none of your business.”

His face twists with anger and his fist clenches against his thigh. “Your everything is my business!” His breath is hot and heavy through his nose and he lets out another scoff that’s almost drowned out by the pounding in his heart that he can’t get a hold of. He’s never been able to with Clark. “I thought we were past this lone wolf crap, Bruce,” he snaps. Disappointment and hurt play across his features, as blatant and obvious as cloud writing on a clear sky.

Diana pushes her way in between them again, knowing full well that one of them is about to say something they don’t mean. “Boys. That’s enough.” He wonders if she ever gets tired of playing mediator between the two.

Clark takes a hand down his face, sighing before he looks up decidedly. “I’m taking you home.”

He reaches out but this time Bruce sees him coming. He blocks his hand with a swift wrist and a barely contained anger. “Don’t touch me,” he warns with a voice that borders on a snarl. He past coddling Clark. He’s past letting them coddle him just because he can’t handle Stephanie’s—

“Don’t make me do this—“ Clark starts but he cuts himself off.

“Bruce…” Diana murmurs.

He could never really hide from them. And they know it. They know the instant that the thought crashes his entire cognitive process, reducing him to a stuttering record player.

_Death, Bruce. Her death._

“I…”

Then Clark is moving to his side, anger all evaporated in favor of his usual brand of overbearing concern. His hands hover over his armor uncertainly. “It’s okay. That was my fault. C’mon.”

“You’re not going without me.”

 

_A guy asked me a question the other day._

_About why people run when things get tough._

_That’s easy—you can become somebody else, wherever you land, right? Who’s gonna know the difference? So why stay? Why set yourself up for more failure? For more pain? Also easy—because we don't know how to do anything else._

They enter through one of the back entrances that opens up a good distance from the actual grounds of the manor, and despite Clark’s mewing, they walk the entire way. It gives him time to think.

Their only lead right now is the cube. He has no idea what it is or what it could be, but Proxima Midnight—whatever she is—had been willing to piss off and kill more than a couple capes and civilians.

Darkseid works alone for the most part but he’s been known to take on partners if the pot was sweetened enough. But this doesn’t fit his motive. They’ve beaten (and lost to) Darkseid more than once and it doesn’t add up. Perhaps it’s something with the Lantern Corps? He’d have to contact Hal for more. Maybe he’d be able to get in touch with Stewart…

“Robin!”

His voice echoes in the cave like it always does. So why does it seem so hollow now?

“Master Bruce! Master Clark, is everything alright?” The entrance opens into the rear of the cave and they can’t see Alfred two floors below the grate until they’ve walked farther along the catwalk.

Clark busies himself with a greeting when they reach the main floor where the water cascades below them. “We’re fine, thank you, Alfred—“

“Where’s Robin?” Bruce demands. The Batcomputer has been abandoned along with the rest of the cave. The only sign of any of his partners are the bloody squares of gauze that have yet to be removed from the desktop. There’s a russet hand print on the back of his chair, not far from the remains of a red chest plate, edges charred and cracked. A helmet lays on the ground beside it.

And Alfred. He’s been crying. His voice is still thick though he hides it well. “I’m afraid Master Damian and Master Dick have retired to the den. Perhaps you would like to join them for a breather, sir?”

“Wake them up.”

The man pauses, regarding him with such pain filled eyes that—“Sir, I don’t think—“

“I said, wake them up, Alfred! I want them in uniform and down here in three minutes.”

Clark approaches him once Alfred’s reluctant footsteps fade up the stairs. There’s a hand on his shoulder for a moment before he roughly shrugs it off. “Bruce, they need rest.”

“The longer we wait, the farther Thanos and Midnight get. They can rest after we’ve caught him,” he snaps over his shoulder. He wakes the computer, prepping the uplink to the Watchtower.

Clark’s voice is hard. “They’re just kids. They need to sleep, and so do you.”

“I need to find out who did this. Not just to us, but to Starfire, and Rayner, and Arrow.”

“If you burn out now, then—Jason—“

The shot reports a thousand times before the pain hits his ears. He’s used to it enough that he doesn’t wince, but his eyes water. Then comes the rage.

“Jason, stop!” Clark yells. The bullet falls through the grate and down into the rushing water below. He knows that Clark’s anger will quell just as fast as the spent ammunition plummets but he’s always been a better man. A better father.

“This is your fault,” Jason says through red gritted teeth. He’s standing over the medical table, sheet pulled back from the body with his dominant arm tucked into his chest with thick tape and gauze. His rage is almost as red as his blood.

“Have you lost your mind?” he snarls, shoving Clark to the side.

The boy returns it with a curse and jagged teeth, stepping around the table. “He’s a fucking alien! It wouldn’t have hurt him!”

Before he can shoot again, Bruce is taking the gun into his own hands, shoving Jason’s arm up until he cries out and wrenches it from his grip. From there it’s automatic: dismantling the firearm in as few as three motions. Jay’s eyes widen first in shock, and then fury but Bruce is turning him around and shoving him forward into the lockers before he can make a move. “You come into my house, under my roof and you follow the rules. Am I clear?” He digs his knee harder into the man’s back.

“Get off me,” he growls and he can feel him reaching down for a grip on his wrist, anything to get a hold on. The fingers stretch toward his belt and Bruce shoves his elbow into Jason’s injured side.

_“Am I clear?”_

_“Get the fuck off me!”_

For a moment he’s thrown by how enraged and vulnerable Jason’s voice is, bordering uncontrolled panic and he forces himself to step back.

He loses his balance, blood rushing too quickly to counteract it while he throws a hand out behind him. It hits something cool and clammy that he doesn’t register until it’s falling to the floor.

Jason reacts faster than he thought he’d be able to, catching Stephanie’s body before it hits the floor and his entire demeanor changes. Tortured and gentle, he’d never admit just how unsettling the boy’s behavior is when he holds her in one arm, not even acknowledging the pain he must be in to return Stephanie to the table top.

For the first time, he feels guilty. He thinks about apologizing. Thinks better of it.

He should be angrier. Should be in a Lazarus-induced frenzy. He _knows_ Jason. And Jason isn’t gentle. Not at times like this. And certainly not with any of his siblings.

Of course, this is _Stephanie._ And Stephanie doesn’t care about rules or what “should be.”

So what comes out of his mouth is, “It’s not like you to give up, Jason.”

Instantly, his glare is back and this time Bruce sees it: the blue. There’s no green in the edges of his irises. He’s completely in control here. “I’m not giving up, you fucking sociopath.” His anger comes through clenched teeth and he gestures violently at the body. “You can’t even look at what you’ve done. This is on _you!”_

Clark finally intervenes and Bruce doesn’t know if he’s grateful or enraged. “Jason, that’s enough.”

He doesn’t seem to have that same question.

“Oh, fuck off, Boy Scout. When are you gonna learn that he only keeps you around so he has something warm to stick his cock in?”

It’s that he surges forward at, fist already poised to deliver a jaw-crushing response and Clark is there again, catching it in one hand, his eyes a bit darker and jaw a bit tighter than before. “Don’t.” Then closer, “You’ll regret it.”

It takes a moment for him to snatch his hand back. It takes a heavy breath and a look at Jason’s face: scared.

There isn’t enough time to gratify a response because they can hear feet coming down the stairs from the manor. Damian comes around the corner in a blur of red and green, domino already tacked on with the lenses down to reveal his mother’s green eyes. Dry eyes now. His katana is unsheathed in his hand and Bruce doesn’t have it in him anymore to reprimand him.

“Father! What the hell is he doing here?”

“Jason?” Dick follows more calmly. He looks a mess, expectedly considering that he only came home about half an hour before Bruce. He’s not in his gear, just old sweats and a hoodie he doesn’t recognize. But his eyes are terribly red and he hasn’t done anything to mask the tear tracks on his cheeks. Those tears aren’t for Stephanie. He wonders if Jason’s are. “Bruce, what’s going on?”

“We’re not resting until we find out who did this and why. All of us.”

Jason coughs into his hand, pale now. Blood starts to seep through his bandages and he looks faint. “Fuck you, old man.”

He shoves the guilt back down. It won’t help. “Contact Black Bat. I want her on this. Batwoman and Signal too.” He does the headcount. Barbara isn’t far, not now. That only leaves one. “Where’s Red Robin.” The effect is instant. His eyes avert sharply. “Jason.”

Dick’s voice cracks when he speaks and his words are dry. “You ripped open your stitches,” he says, moving towards his brother. His hands are steadier than his breath when Jason leans back reluctantly, allowing the older Bat to examine his bandages. That’s when he winces. Dick’s eyes zero in on it and his flighty gaze. He looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Did you hit him?”

“No,” Clark answers.

Damian scowls, sheathing his sword. “Silence, Kryptonian. My father can speak for himself.”

Bruce dismisses the boy with a pointed glare and swallows. “I didn’t hit him.” _Not quite._

No one but he and Dick hear Jason’s antagonistic scoff. Damian raises his chin. “See? He wouldn’t waste his time.”

“He wastes enough keeping you around,” he retorts.

Damian scowls again, “Likewise.” For the boy, its a tame response and Bruce can see the worry in his son’s eyes. His gaze keeps flicking over to the body behind them, the cool statue of Stephanie’s corpse. He’s never been shy around bodies, not when he was trained to cut them down. Seeing his son like this is just another unsettling thing on top of the rest.

He can’t think about her right now. She’s just another casualty. A mistake.

A pain sharper than anything he’s every endured stabs into his chest and he covers it with another growl.

“Jason.” They dance around the question. His boys were always intuitive. They’d forged fierce loyalty between each other that he hadn't had to teach or nurse. They’d take each other’s secrets to the grave of any of them were to ask. But they forget that Bruce is one of them. Forged in the same fire, they’re loyal to him too. “Where is Red Robin?”

If he hadn’t trained it out of him early on, Dick would’ve flinched. He’s even schooled himself out of the equally telling stiffening of his shoulders. Instead, he blinks. “I don’t know.”

Bruce can’t help the sneer. “I doubt that.”

“It’s the truth,” he says stubbornly. “I don’t know. No one does.”

Jason stares at him head on. “How long?”

He answers without missing a beat and he sees the curse fly through Dick’s head. “Seventeen days.” He lets out a dry scoff, sauntering forward stiffly. “And none of you had a damn clue.” His eyes are feverish and bright but it isn’t from infection anymore. This glow is a familiar one with roots in Himalayan peaks.

“Except you,” he spearheads. “Why didn’t you say something?”

The boy’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Was I supposed to? I don’t take orders from you anymore, Bruce. How long is it gonna take for you to get that through your thick skull?”

Jason’s always known exactly which of his buttons to push to make him blow steam and breathe fire. He’s determined not to let him though. Not tonight. And he knows it. “Where the hell is he?”

“If I knew I wouldn’t tell you,” he scoffs, throwing a cocky eyebrow in Dick’s direction. The older vigilante shifts uncomfortably. “Baby Bird’s got us all blacklisted, and for good reason too.”

“Tim isn’t stupid. He wouldn’t let a personal grudge get in the way of the mission.”

The glare he receives is one that he sees everyday in the mirror. “Maybe it ain’t a grudge, old man.”

It changes the dynamic. Things instantly become a lot more hostile in that half second.

He knows how to intimidate, how to make the two inches he has over Jason seem like a mile. But Jason’s gotten good at masking himself. Really good.

He growls, low and slow from deep in his throat. “Tell me where he is, Jason. Now.”

There’s that stubbornness again. “I. Don’t. Know. I’m sure Babs has a pretty good idea, though.”

He doesn’t know when she arrived and that fact alone unsettles him. He keeps missing things that he can't afford to be missing. Not now. Not this. He nods coolly at the girl anyway. She looks almost as bad as Grayson does, makeup streaming down her case. One wouldn’t be able to tell from her voice though.

“East Africa. He said it was for a case he thought he’d closed a couple year ago. A lot of tachyon energy involved, I think… I think he has something to do with this.” She holds her hand out. “Jason. The flash drive.” The two pass a small stick between them and then she’s brushing past him to insert it into the port on the desktop.

Missing. Bats didn’t go missing. _They also don’t die._

It’s anger and anxiety that plunges icy water into his veins. He wonders if he’ll ever stop seeing red after tonight.

The files she pulls up are strange and the chat logs burn his skin. Tracking tachyon activity across the country. Across the globe. Maps of jungles and mountains beside text files of shorthand that only Tim could decipher.

“You didn’t think this would be something I should know?” he growls, leaning over her shoulder when she opens the last file: forensic tests on some kind of mineral.

She replies coolly, not even a bit off put by his aggression. She just wipes her nose on the back of her hand. “He didn’t think it concerned you. It was his own case.”

“And now look what he’s done.”

Barbara turns toward him so sharply that he has to back away to avoid her knees. “I never said he was the cause of this.”

“But he messed with things he shouldn’t have,” he argues.

Predictably, Dick steps in, always the peacekeeper. “We shouldn’t fight.” He looks down at his feet, breath shuddering while he exhales. “We’ve all made mistakes, we need to… find out who did this and why. To do that, we need to find Tim.”

Bruce regards him for a long moment. He knew. He knew about this, about Tim’s disappearance and the betrayal cuts cold. He turns with a snap of his cape, moving Barbara roughly out of the way. “If he doesn’t want to be found then we won’t look for him.”

“What?” she demands and Jason isn’t far behind, snapping at the same time, “Um, excuse me?”

He doesn’t indulge them with a turn of his head, simply pulls up the uplink terminal again to continue to process. He thinks Clark sighs behind him. “You said that you don’t know where he is. We know where he stands.”

“Are you so fucking damaged that you can’t even hear yourself right now?” He feels Jason push himself to his feet, charge forward into Dick’s shoulder.  “Maybe we should toss you in the ring with Bane, see if he can knock your head straight. This isn’t Tim’s fault.”

He doesn’t mean it, he knows he doesn’t. They don’t. And the words don’t stop because if he doesn’t find someone to blame now he’ll blame himself.

“Isn’t it?” he snaps, no longer bothering to soften his voice. Dick flinches and even Damian regards him warily, the conflict bare on his face. “He knowingly withheld information from us about the tachyon fluctuations. About another breach in the multiverse.”

Jason explodes loudly enough that he steps away from the computer. “He can’t trust you guys as far as he can throw you! I don’t blame him!”

Damian cuts in, unsure of who he should be defending and Bruce wishes that for once his kid would just shut up. “Obviously he didn’t trust you very much either.”

Jason’s eyes flare and before he can put himself in between him and Robin, Clark is snapping at all of them. “That’s enough. We need to put all of our resources into finding the woman that did this.” He sighs and Bruce realizes that he’s bracing himself, resigning himself. “Red Robin has made it clear that he has no intentions to help.”

_“You arrogant son of a bitch!”_

Dick manages a hold on him but its hasty and he doesn’t get a good grip, can’t without risking serious injury. “Jason, sit down!” he pleads but he can see the green now, flecks of it that aren’t natural, like freckles in his pupils.

“This is your fault—you left her there by herself— _you_ knew this would happen!”

Barbara stands to help hold him down but her hands are too gentle to do anything but get in the way. She’s crying again but her words don’t make sense. “Jason, _please._ Stop, he didn’t know. No one knew.”

He did. He should’ve. It’s his job to know. It was his job to get her out and he failed her. Just like he failed Jason—all of them.

 _“Bullshit._ He knew. He knew it was dangerous. He sent her there to _die._ Another _failure_ to get rid of, huh Bruce?” He echoes every thought, surging against Dick’s arms. “Just like me, like Tim?”

But it wasn’t his fault. She should’ve _listened._ She never listened. Not when he told her to stay away; this life would get her killed. And it _did._ He was right.

Why did he have to be _right?_

“We aren’t the only ones who lost people, Jason. Connor Hawke is dead.”

He freezes. “What?”

Dick’s eyes turn to his in an instant, begging. “Bruce, no—“ God, there’s everything in those eyes. There used to be a lot more.

“Starfire is dead.”

He thinks his hearing is shot but the roar of the water is still there. Clark says his name but he doesn’t hear.

Dick lets him go because he’s gasping, eyes still locked with his. His mouth goes so dry. So dry. “What did you just say?” Jason breathes.

“Grayson?” Damian asks quietly from the side. His eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them. _You did that too._

Clark approaches him with open palms. “Dick, sit down. Sit down, son. Please.”

He has to tear his eyes away from Dick’s heaving chest, from _blue._ Jason’s hands are shaking. He’s blue too—trying to be. Barbara’s pulling on his arm, crying harder now. She’s nothing but deadweight. He feels sick. “Bruce, I swear to God, if you don’t tell me what the hell is going on I will fucking kill you.”

Somewhere he finds words he doesn’t have the right to give. “Harper reported back to the Watchtower. He’s with Arrow now.”

Dick heaves over the railing but it’s nothing but stomach acid and water. “I have to go—“

“Dick—“

“Grayson, wait!”

Barbara goes after him, not after shoving Bruce as hard as she can. He gives her a couple steps because he deserves it.

 _Get a grip. Stay on track. Remember the mission._ “Harper said they were on an Outlaws mission when the attack happened. I assume you know about that?”

“Bruce.” Clark’s voice is harder now, because he knows that he’s just driving him into the ground now, hitting him while he’s down. He has to know. _Grief is a useless emotion. It does nothing, gives nothing. Get past it._ Talia’s voice in his head. Talia touching his skin.

“If Tim has anything to do with this, you need to tell me now.”

Clark’s fingers dig into his skin, the skin on his neck, his jaw. “Bruce, that’s _enough.”_

“Is he lying?” Jason asks. His voice is low. Damian hovers by him now. He looks so confused.

He’s not talking to him. He’s talking to Clark. “I—what?”

“Is he lying?!”

The man blanches, stuttering. “Jason, I—“

Jason’s face falls. “You knew. You all fucking knew.”

“Todd—“ Damian just gets out his name before he’s got another gun on him.

_Should’ve checked. You taught him that. Your fault._

The thoughts are coming too fast for him to process. They’ve never done that before. He sees Jason charging him, sees his arm raised. He lets him strike him across the face hard enough to draw blood. Copper erupts in his mouth and his nose starts to drip heavily down his chin. It burns.

 _“Jason!_ That’s enough!” Clark is shouting. He tries to get between them.

“Fuck you, Bruce! Fuck! You!”

He makes the decision then. Clark isn’t expecting it so when he shoves him away, he actually moves. There’s nothing between him and what he deserves. He spits out the blood on his tongue, avoids Damian’s frozen face. “If you’re going to shoot me, shoot me.”

“Bruce—“

“Shut up, Clark!” he snaps at the same time Jason screams, “Shut your fucking mouth, Kent!”

He holds his hands up. His armor is heavy duty but he doesn’t know if it’ll hold a shot from this close. If shooting him is what Jason needs to… to breathe, then so be it. “I didn’t lie to you, Jason.”

He can see all of him now: the stitches on his tortured face, the bruises and scratches. He can see the bandages, now sopping and dripping onto his pants. There’s blood that isn’t his, blood that is, but its not on his hands this time. It’s on Bruce’s.

He leaves without a word. Takes his gun. Takes both of them and he can’t find it in himself to stop him.

Clark goes after him, either because it’s what he’d ask if he was able to, or if he just can't stand being in the same room as him anymore. He thinks it the latter.

“Father—“

“Get away from me.”

Alfred is on the stairs. He’s got tears too. “Master Bruce.”

“Tell Gordon to meet me at the precinct in ten. Get Kane on the line.”

“The—“ Damian stops himself before the slur leaves his lips even though all Bruce would’ve done is blink. “The _woman?”_

“Signal and Bluebird too.”

He leaves them.

 

_So why stay? Why open yourself up to all the bad you've tried to leave behind?_

_The only variable you can control is yourself._

_You can forget who you are, or you can be who you want to be. That's why you stay._

He gives himself three minutes. Three minutes to let his walls down where no one can see, no one can hear. Three minutes before he has to put the mask back on and finish the mission.

For three minutes he lets himself just be a father.

There are tears on his face before he collapses on the bench in the shower room, hot air in his nose and mist on his skin. He can hear her laughing, he thinks.

Three minutes turns into five, which turns into twenty. No one comes in. No one follows him, and when twenty turns into thirty, the automatic lights turn off.

He can still see her smile.

_You stay for a second chance._

 

He doesn’t see Gordon. He doesn’t care either.

It’s more than an hour when he finally leaves the bathroom, suit abandoned on the floor somewhere. He finds him on the stairs, head in his hands, still.

Stephanie’s body is gone and the most profound despair rips through him because instead of saying goodbye, he…

“Dick.”

The boy looks up at him. His eyes aren’t wet anymore, just sad. “Hey,” he croaks, wipes his nose on the back of his hand and stands. “Um, Babs went home. She wanted to be with her dad, I told her I’d keep an eye on things. I just—” His voice breaks for a moment and he looks away before offering a shaky smile. “Ah, Leslie called. She took care of her. There wasn’t much of the suit to save.”

There’s a strip of familiar purple around his wrist. “Dick.”

“I couldn’t find Jay. When he doesn’t want to be found… he shouldn’t be alone but I—I’m not—” He crosses his arms. “Cass is on her way. First flight in the morning—Tim is still gone. I can’t reach him anywhere but I called the Titans—they—I can’t _tell him—“_

He breaks.

He’s tired of seeing his boys cry. _Your fault._

“Why, Bruce?

The most honest words he’s ever spoken pour out. “I’m sorry.” And then three that beat the last, that he wished they were all here to hear. “I’m here, son.”

 

> **3 UNREAD MESSAGES**
> 
> S. Kyle: _if u need anything. you know where i am._
> 
> C. Kent: _Switching out with Cy. Get some sleep_
> 
> C. Cain: _at the airport now. See you soon._

 

“You’re early,” J’onn says without turning. He’s at the console, eyes trained on a relay of tachyons readings. Arrow is behind him with his arms crossed and Lantern leans over the keyboard.

He hasn’t slept. Hasn’t done anything but work but there’s a bit of something that he didn’t have before: hope.

“I’ve got a plan.”

 

* * *

  

“Relax. You look tense.” The venue is lavish even to his own standards. It’s overly modern and sleek, more so than anything back in Gotham or Metropolis, or even their New York City. The windows are seamless, boasting the lights of the city below them. Here, like in every city, the stars don’t twinkle in the sky but rather near the ground in the traffic lights and glass. The traffic runs like blood through veins and the air is cleaner than what he’s used to—still bitter with smog and the tang of urban sewage, but new. It’s classy; all suits and wealth rubbing elbows but here it’s new money. These people are young, they grew into the wealth and they flaunt it innocently, haughtily. They cannot be bought, or blackmailed. Their world is still bright.

Upbeat but tasteful music plays in one ear, just quiet enough to talk over and loud enough to fill the lulls in conversation. In the other ear—

“That’s because I’m tense.” Clark stands across the atrium, a floor below him leaning on the quaint yet well-stocked bar. He makes an effort to blend in but he stands out with his broad shoulders and bright eyes that flick side to side a bit too rapidly to be curious.

Bruce lets a lazy gaze rove over the crowd, populated but not packed. “The woman to the right. Corporate formal. An employee. See what you can get out of her.”

“Yellow?” Clark tosses back his drink. His fourth.

“Your left. That was your third glass. Play the part.”

He watches the Kryptonian loosen his tie and tip his chin down a bit so his eyes appear darker, his movements taking on a languid character that he gazes at a second too long. “I’d feel a lot more comfortable with you over here, y’know.”

He takes a sip of his own drink, light and bubbly. “Nervous?” He squashes his own urge to take out his phone. They’re too far. His calls won’t go through here.

“She’s looking at me funny.” Middle-aged, slightly on the younger side evident in the way she’s let down her hair. She’s here more for entertainment than business, a little tipsy but aware enough to pick up on Clark’s hesitance.

“Because you’re acting funny. Clark, you’re a 6’3, 235 pound alien that benches six fully loaded freight cars without breaking a sweat. Yet pencil skirts and heels make you uncomfortable.”

“That’s a skirt? Maybe I should tell her I’m taken. I don’t mind bragging, wait—you know how much I weigh?”

The smirk is bitten back. “I do now.”

His voice changes then, and even though they’re on a separate line than the rest of the team, he speaks lower. “Are you okay?”

It’s a loaded question. 

It’s been 26 hours since Midnight killed Stephanie. Eighteen since he’d dared his own son to shoot him point blank over her body. Sixteen since he held Dick while he cried and twelve since Damian had fallen asleep in the cave on his lap. It isn’t easier to breathe, not through the guilt. But it’s easier not to think about it. 

He dodges it and Clark just sighs. “Stark still hasn’t showed.”

“He has an image to keep. Reminds me of someone. And I’ll have you know it’s seven cars.”

It’s been six hours since they left the Watchtower.

He cracks a slight smile and he knows Clark hears it in his voice when he speaks. “Don’t lie. It’s unbecoming.” Bruce catches the profile of his grin before he turns it on the woman.

Getting across the breach had been easier than anticipated. Zatanna had opened them before and with Victor’s help, they’d been able to get a formidable team through: him, Clark, Hal, Barry, and Diana. They couldn’t afford to take any more, not with the threat of Midnight still out there, so she, Aquaman, and Manhunter remained behind as the acting authorities until Stewart and Gardner arrived from Oa.

The downside is that they’ve only got one way back, a break-in-case-of-emergency spell courtesy of Zatanna again. Unless they can find another way back, it’s a one-way ticket home. He’d been willing to take that risk. It’s a bit different now that they’ve actually crossed.

It hadn’t taken them long after to establish a discreet base-of-operations in Brooklyn. Preliminary research (and a suspicious amount of public information that should not be public) had led them here, a charity gala hosted by Stark Industries for one good cause or another (he’s sure it won’t do anything for Stark’s karma).

The skyscraper is nestled in the heart of Manhattan, classy, private, with enough booze to make it fun.

Green Lantern had already made one comment about their similarities. His glare made sure that there wouldn’t be a second.

Still, he agrees. And it unsettles him. As far as he knows, billionaire-types tend to lean away from the left side of things; especially vigilantism—him and Green Arrow excluded. But _nothing_ about Stark is remotely heroic. And he’s got no identity to hide.

He’s a playboy, an arrogant asshole with more money than he knows what to do with besides make weaponized suits that plenty of people would love to get their hands on—for the wrong reasons. He’s selfish and egotistical, a prick with a degree.

Not even the rest of the team is that nuclear.

Steven Grant Rogers: a man out of time, a relic from the Second World War. _Captain America._ The world’s most high profile fugitive with a heart of gold. And Jason said that Clark was a Boy Scout. He almost wishes he was here to see this.

Thor. An honest-to-god… well, _god._

Hulk: an _actual_ nuclear experiment gone wrong.

And a couple of dodgy, non-descript assassins.

For “Earth’s Mightiest Heroes,” they seemed pretty ragtag, even by his own standards. Even more so now that half of them are scattered across the globe in hiding.

“I suppose I have you to thank for the gorgeous venue and fine taste.”

The woman spins, quick and balanced on her heels with a fire in her eyes as bright as her hair. Her lips are already parted, probably to parse out some rote excuse or greeting. It dies on her tongue and he flashes her one of Brucie’s charming smiles. “Oh, I’m sorry—I thought—” She gathers herself and returns his smile. “Of course, Mister...”

Another smile and dip of his chin that comes off somewhere between teasing and respectful. “Bruce Wayne.”

“Pepper Potts,” she responds, confirming what he already knew. She’s tall, slender and reminds him of Barbara. She’s sharp-mouthed, a no-nonsense business woman despite the crest of her torso swathed in the green silk of her dress. She’s well into her second trimester, but one wouldn’t be able to tell from her face: determined, not a hint of exhaustion in her eyes.

He casts her a charming smile and raises a hand for a water. “I didn’t know running the Avengers was a job for the CEO of Stark Industries.”

The Avengers. A simple internet search had provided enough for him to improvise.

Until two years ago, they’d been an American-based team of enhanced individuals from varying backgrounds—Stark’s being the most intriguing. His backstory was familiar enough: born into wealth, parent’s lost. That’s where the similarities ended however. Stark was a notorious playboy, a weapon’s manufacturer and military contractor until he’d been kidnapped and tortured by a high profile terrorist organization. SHIELD had been a discreet, multi-government containment and strategic institution organization that overlooked the Avengers until some convoluted fall that involved more corruption than even a seasoned Gothamite like himself could handle in one sitting.

The Sokovia Accords are a familiar concept that the League has always tried to avoid—it's why they have the Watchtower. It seems that the Avengers didn’t have the same foresight.

Complications between the two leaders drove the heroes to a conflict that nearly leveled a German airport and left half the team as fugitives.

Bruce takes a moment to appreciate the cooperation of his own team.

Potts smiles and there’s a condescending edge that makes his eyebrow lift. “The Avengers run themselves. I run SI.”

He thinks of Cass. “Which is admirable in itself. It really is inspiring to see a young woman so successful in the field of science. I have a daughter who looks up to you and I want to thank you for that.” Then there’s a flute of water in his fingers that he offers with a nod.

She blushes and it catches her off guard, dipping her head, but not to drink. “It’s my pleasure. How old is she?”

“She’s eighteen this year.”

“Well, you tell her that I have an internship position open.”

“You’re too kind.”

She gazes at her drink, contemplating for a long, silent moment and he realizes that it’s because of him. “Where are you coming from? I don’t remember seeing your name on the guest list.”

He takes a sip, watching her watching him, like a game of poker neither of them know they’re playing. “Well, I’m pretty forgettable, I don’t blame you. Just a small start-up in New Jersey. Trying to put my inheritance to good use.”

She laughs, a rich, cool sound. Her eyebrow raises and she pretends to sip, doesn’t lick her lips, wipes them with a dainty hand. “A nice bachelor like you? Should be easy enough.”

“Stark gave me a push I needed a couple years back. Sort of like an angel was sent to me,” he shrugs with a playful grin.

She laughs again, a bit more genuine. “Mr. Stark is a lot of things. An angel?”

He returns her laughter, taking her glass back and handing it off. It’s told him enough. “Fair point. Where is the man of the hour by the way?”

“Mr. Stark has a habit of committing his time to other responsibilities.” There. Disappointment. She drops her eyes for just a moment, returning to her previous self but not before her hand drifts towards her stomach.

_Ah._

He smiles, tipping his head down into her field of view. “Well, his absence led me to the true powerhouse of the company herself.”

She blushes again, hand now resting firmly on her stomach. “Oh, I don’t think—“

“Excuse me, Ms. Potts.”

The voice that interrupts is sharper than hers and a good bit more hostile and they both turn to the tall brunette behind her.

She’s sharp and severe, hair pulled back high and tight from her face. Even her makeup is bold and reserved. He narrows his eyes when Potts smiles warmly. “Oh, I apologize,” she says, moving to the man that accompanies her secretary.

“No, I’m sorry. Bruce Wayne,” he introduces fluently, making sure to keep one keen eye on Potts’ retreating figure.

“Maria Hill.” She’s tall, fierce, like Diana. Her jaw is as sharp as her tongue when she answers and she’s clearly seen action. Although her nails are polished and manicured, nothing gets rid of calluses forged from the kind of life he leads. That, and the scars on her knuckles.

“Excuse me a moment, Mr. Wayne.” Potts is  oblivious when she returns to pardon herself, a hand on his elbow, smiling sweetly. He returns the smile and nods before the comm in his ear crackles to life.

 _”Bruce, we’ve been made. It’s time to_ go,” Barry says in his ear. He sounds antsier than usual.

He responds so low on his breath that he’s not even sure if he says it. “We’re not leaving until we got what we came for.”

_”Look, I know how much this means to you, but they’re going to crack down on security. When they see you’re not on the guest list—“_

“I’ll improvise,” he growls.

This time Clark chimes in with a familiar finality. _”Bruce, it’s time to go.”_

“Not yet.”

“Pardon me?” Hill’s stone cold gaze locks him down.

He plays it off with a coy grin, turning to face her fully. “My driver. He’s a bit antsy. Where did—“

“She had something to take care of. Who are you again?” Her head tips, narrowed eyes pretty and dangerous. _She knows._

“Bruce Wayne. I met Stark a few years back and we’ve kept in touch.” The flute in his hand raises slightly at the words and she gives him another suspicious once-over before smiling, suddenly and coldly.

“Yes, I do remember your name on the list. How’s business been?”

 _Shit._ “Booming.”

She smiles, nods, and then there’s a muzzle pressing just under his ribcage, hidden inside his jacket so that from any other angle, it looks like a moment of stolen intimacy. He towers over her but she manages to whisper into his ear anyway. “You have exactly five seconds to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

He takes a casual sip, looking around the room innocently, leaning down to answer. “Trigger happy?”

She smiles again, sly. “Very.”

_”Bruce, what are you doing?”_

He places the glass on a passing plate and rests his hand gently but threateningly on the woman’s shoulder. She mimics him with a warning eyebrow raise and then they're swaying back and forth. Dancing, tempting death. He leans into her again. “Listen—”

 _“Get out of there,”_ Barry hisses.

 _“Guys, there’s military crawling around everywhere.”_ Hal.

 _“Military?”_ Clark echoes. It sounds like he’s moving.

Hill’s head turns and she freezes. “Wait.”

It’s a voice like brick and mortar, rough and ragged. It screams authority, whispers manipulation, and it sends his intuition haywire and he’s following the secretary’s gaze.

“Miss Potts, how are you?” The owner of the voice: tall, heavy and gray. He’s military, he knows that just by looking at the way he stands. Brass, high-ranking, flanked by two men in Army fatigues. He spots four more by the door.

“What are you doing here, General,” Potts replies smoothly. It’s a different tone than the one she used with him. This one mirrors Hill’s icy dismissal as she looks down her nose at the man.

He smiles, a sickeningly sweet thing that has him bristling. “Don’t be like that. I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me. For your security, of course.” He tags the last bit on as if it’s an afterthought and warning bells ring so loud that he moves in.

“Sir.” He smiles, placing a hand on Potts’ back. He sees the man’s eyes flick down for a fraction of a second before zeroing in on him. “I think Miss Potts will be staying with me.” Then he frowns, plays the clueless layman. “Unless something has happened…”

The man nods once, but not in agreement—in a arrogant show of dismissal and superiority. “Nothing I can discuss with a civilian, I’m afraid. If you don’t mind, Miss Potts?”

She casts him an apologetic look over her shoulder and steps away. “I’ll be fine. Just wait here.”

Neither of them spare him so much as another glance when they walk away. The entire exchange has his skin buzzing.

“Who was that?” he growls into his shoulder.

 _“General Secretary Thaddeus Ross. The Avenger’s liaison and handler more or less since the implementation of the Sokovia Accords,”_ Hal reads.

“What’s Potts’ connection to Stark outside of SI?”

_“They’re engaged.”_

“And she’s pregnant,” he adds lowly. They’re disappearing into the crowd, down the extravagant stairwell. She looks comfortable but even just meeting her, he knows that she’s aware of the position they have her in: flanked on all sides by inconspicuous suits and on the arm of someone very powerful. She looks like she knows what he’s doing but he makes the decision anyways.

Diana speaks for the first time. _“Ross’s only interest in Potts would be to keep Stark in line. If he’s here then Stark has something he wants.”_

The truth dawns on him, puzzle pieces clicking into place for the first time tonight. “Steve Rogers is back in the game and they don’t know where he is.”

_“And Stark does?”_

“Yes.” He’s moving to the elevators now, gently pushing past the crowd of people, charming smiles and touches forgotten.  “What floor are the servers on?”

_”Fifty-one.”_

“Flash, clear me a path. Be discreet. Clark, get Hill to Potts. Separate them from Ross.”

_“I’m on it.”_

He’s close, and it only takes a few antagonizing seconds to get to where he needs to be, a few more to bypass the security. Thanks to Barry, the elevator doesn’t stop at all. Hal’s green light illuminates the floor as soon as he exits, loosening his tie with one hand.

“What’d you have in mind, boss?” he asks, floating just above the floor.

He replies offhandedly, already reaching for the tiny compact laptop plugged into one of the towers. “Backdoor.”

“Make it quick,” he responds, turning to watch his back. He knows the keystrokes, thanks whoever is listening that the universes are similar enough to run the same server OS’s that he's familiar with. “What’s that?” The Lantern asks over his shoulder.

“Facilities utilizing Stark’s corporate and personal security. Three matches. One upstate.”

“New Avengers Facility. That’s gotta be it.”

He leans into the comms. “We’ve got a location. Let’s go.”

_“Where to?”_

“North.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter but I’ve spent so much time on it that it just isn’t worth spending more on. It’s definitely one I’m gonna revisit because Bruce is so hard to write. But... if you can just be understanding that’d be great. I’ve had a really horrible week emotionally but I did want to get this out for you guys. 
> 
> So we finally dip our toes into the crossover! I did plan on having a lot more Hill in this and even some Happy so I’m definitely going to revisit this chapter in the future and make it all kinds of perfect (Bruce is so complicated and angry it’s so frustrating!). This is the worst Bruce gets in terms of “Bad Dad,” it’s all up hill from here (at least in that regard).  
> I’m really feeling this slow burn thing. It’s soooo slow. And there’s still a few chapters until the /clash ;)
> 
> Next up on _sputnik: Steve reconnects with an old friend and learns some very hard truths...
> 
> ALSO—Did you guys see the Titans trailer? A lot of people seem to hate it but I am so hype!


	6. /lines_1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I swear, we look like the Capulets and Montagues.”
> 
> Tony’s mouth quirks up despite himself. “Dibs on Mercutio.”

“There’s no one here, Cap,” Sam calls from up ahead. He’s got his goggles and the new suit on, the one fitted with vibranium wingtips and near-silent engines. His drone hovers around his hand, returning obediently from it’s canvass of the exterior. Sure, half the building is glass but the fact that they’d landed and deplaned without setting of _any_ of the security measures that Steve _knows_ are set up going off? That was unnerving in itself.

Clint hangs back, still silent and sullen but his brain is working a mile a minute, cataloging every shadow and corner they can’t quite see while Steve and Nat follow Sam, Red Robin sandwiched between them.

Like Clint, he hasn’t said another word. Not to them at least. He’d fallen asleep on the flight he thinks, not very long and certainly not very deeply—he’d awoken silently, suddenly opening his eyes when Steve had moved for his water bottle. But he’d dreamt deeply enough to mumble words he couldn’t catch. And as soon as he did, he was awake for the remainder of the trip.

They’ve still got the Wakandan cuffs on him because Steve isn’t entirely sure that they can keep him down if he decided to run, but they’d let him wear his suit again—the parts of it that weren’t weaponized in any way. So he marches between them in his boots, pants, and tunic, everything else packed securely in the cargo bay for Stark to examine himself.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” he orders the team when they approach the side doors from the landing pad. “They’re here.”

It’s exactly how they’d left it—albeit emptier. There are still quinjets parked a little way back, a few jeeps branded with the Avengers insignia. It’s dark, even with the moon shining gray through the enormous windows and skylights (and if his internal clock isn’t just absolutely _fucked_ just about now).

The floor isn’t quite silent under his heels and his footsteps echo across the entire hangar: up to the enclosed walkway above the parked jets that feed into the labs, the sparring loft behind the closest wall, or the conference lounges on the right. It’s all achingly familiar, even though every trace of their existence has been erased.

There’s no scuffs from his boots streaking across the floor, none of Wanda’s hair that used to get _everywhere._ There’s no scratches on the floor or footprints on the wall from Sam practicing his running starts, or narrow holes in the plaster from whenever one of them pissed Natasha off while she had a knife in hand.

They’d been erased. But even then—

“God, it looks the same.” Sam sounds wistful and pained at the same time. He's got his neck craned, taking in the high ceiling, the feeling of an indoor city.

“Tony hasn’t done much to change anything,” Nat muses. Her own voice gives nothing away.

His stomach churns. _What does it mean when the futurist starts to live in the past?_

It was a mistake coming back. The stakes are too high, the risks too great. If Ross finds them here, they’re as good as dead. They won’t be able to get out of the Raft so easily again.

He casts his gaze to Nat.

 _“We shouldn’t have come here,”_ he’d muttered once they’d officially crossed into US airspace. Even dark, turning around at that point was too risky. He’d gripped the handhold above his head tight enough to make his knuckles hurt while Natasha had glanced sideways at him.

_“Even if it weren’t for Red Robin, we need help finding Wanda.”_

He’d held down a scoff, trying not to ogle at the boy from the corner of his eye. He’d sat perfectly still, watching them move like _they_ were _his_ prisoners. _“Do you believe him?”_ he asks under his breath.

 _“Clint does,”_ she’d replied evasively.

_“Do you?”_

And then she’d looked at him. _“I don’t know.”_

They all jump when the mechanical noise of the hangar doors opening echoes through the building, turning on their heels.

“That’s far enough, Captain.”

 _Vision._ The android floats between them and the quinjet, cape billowing in the non-existent wind.

He doesn’t move, even as two weaponized suits land hard on the ground behind him.

All of a sudden he remembers how quiet they are, how once the thrusters cut off, they’re silent metal weapons. He can hear the tiny mechanisms inside them, the fans whirring under the outer armor, the familiar sound of the arc reactors, the hollow sound the suit makes when it actually lands.

They rise to their full height, iron statues with cold white eyes.

The suits are damaged. That’s the first thing Steve really registers; not the new shade of red that the Iron Man suit boasts, or the upgraded metal of War Machine’s chestplate—it’s the starburst of soot that kisses the faceplate’s temple, the deep gouges in the gauntlets, metal peeled back to expose delicate wiring. The suits are damaged. The men inside are not.

For some reason, when the suit collapses around the genius body, he’s expecting the worst. He’s expecting a bruised sternum, sunken eyes and bloody lips. He expects a black eye and bandages. Instead—“What are you doing here, Rogers? Last time I checked you’re still a US fugitive,”—he looks healthier than ever.

The suit falls away from his skin, turning over into a million little panels and pieces. There’s a glow to his eyes that the camera never quite catches, the slight dip in his cheek when he chews it, the deep set of his eyebrows when he glares at Steve like he’s the last person on Earth he’d like to see.

And, well—he is.

He lifts his chin. “Then arrest me.”

It should be a smirk. Not a sneer.  “FRIDAY—“

“I called them.” War Machine’s face plate lifts and Rhodey’s eyes are locked on his, silent relief. Gratitude. He nods minisculely, even in the face of Tony’s quiet rage.

“What?”

“We were on our way anyway,” Steve explains, not willing to let Rhodes take the fall. The pilot shakes his head anyway. _Wrong move, Cap._

Tony’s face curdles, so bitter, but he's _alive_ and _breathing._ “No, that’s not how this works anymore. You don’t live here. You don’t get to come back and be the hero again, alright?”

It stings more than he’d like to admit. But it’s not something that he hadn’t been expecting. Natasha beats him to it, stepping up beside him while Tony’s eyes slide over. For a moment, the look of betrayal is so raw that Steve can feel the effect it has on her: a heavy apprehension, maybe guilt or unease. Something thick and waxy that slows her down. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then en _lighten me,”_ he snarls. There’s no sign of the easy-going genius they’d left behind. His eyes are colder than the Siberian snow they’d left him in.

“Wanda.” It's all he says and Tony’s glare changes slightly. For the first time, he looks right at him and his mouth goes dry. His eyes have always been the most expressive part about him, no matter if they carried dark circles from days in the workshop, or wide and bright from the suit, it had been his eyes that stayed with Steve throughout their whole time apart. He can count the flecks of black on brown from here as they swim with uncertainty across his irises.

He swears that he looks _relieved._

“Wanda?” Vision repeats instantly. His entire stature changes from protective to aggressive with just one word and Rhodes holds a hand out to him. “What happened to her?”

Clint speaks up from behind him, moving to flank him on his left. “There was an incident.”

_Shit._

Tony’s eyes start to slide over and stop on the gap between their shoulders. His stance changes immediately from cautious to hostile.

They should’ve left him on the quinjet.

“Who is that?” Vision asks stiffly. His head tilts to one side, curious and predatory at the same time. Steve can hear the mechanisms of the suit start up again, shifting idly, standing by.

Steve steps in front of him. “Stark, no—he’s a friend.”

“I wouldn’t call him a friend,” Sam winces then shrugs apologetically. “No offense.”

If Steve hadn’t been thoroughly convinced that the kid is emotionless, he would’ve thought that the quirk in Red Robin’s lips is a _smirk._ “None taken.”

Stark sneers but his eyes slide back over, first to Sam’s. “The feelin’s mutual, Big Bird. I didn’t know Team Fugitive was recruiting.” He looks back at Red, situating himself just slightly more aggressively. “What’s your poison? Parking ticket? Murder?”

“Sent from an alternate universe to warn you about the end of half of the world, Mr. Stark.”

The deadpan takes away all the air in the room and he—along with the rest of his team—turns back sharply to the unmasked vigilante staring Stark down with pale blue eyes.

Rhodes breaks the silence with a choked off sound he hasn’t heard before. “Excuse me?”

Sam turns back to the three now bristling Avengers. “Ok, we did not know _that.”_

“What’s he talking about?” Vision’s voice is even when he finally lets his heels touch the ground and Steve realizes how much he’s let himself forget about the android: he towers over the rest of them and the timbre of his words shake the cavern of his chest. God, he wishes he had his shield.

Stark scoffs, shoving past Vision, a heavy hand on his shoulder. Neither of the two drop their stare from Red’s. “Don’t tell me you’re buying this, Vis.” And he’s right there. Not within arms reach, but close enough for his throat to start closing up with anger and something else.

_Rosemary._

He’s got a scornful smirk on his lips and waves his hand dismissively. “Where’d you get him? Method actors aren’t very common in Wakanda, are they? And if you’re trying to pass him off as a hero, try feeding him.”

Rhodes leans around, stepping closer and even though it’s not his intention, Steve squashes the urge to shift, feeling flanked. “What’s your name, kid?”

His eyes slide over without wavering, cool and professional in a way he’s never seen any other super act. “Red Robin.”

This time he laughs, a mean sound that changes so suddenly into a hostile growl. _“Very_ original. Put him in holding.”

“Stark—“ Red starts but Vision’s already moving forward without an ounce of hesitation. He stalks forward, even when Steve moves the kid behind him, forgetting to be gentle for a moment.

“Tony—“ Rhodes reaches out for the genius’s elbow and gets waved off, metal clacking against metal so hard his teeth hurt.

“Do it now!” he barks anyway, eyes flashing.

Then Red Robin is shoving his own arm away, stepping out from his shadow despite his warning growl. “You know why I’m here,” he says sharply until Tony’s eyes are meeting his, wide. Scared. “You’ve seen it and so have I. I didn’t have to ask for your help but I am. So, please.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Clint speaks up now, voice low on his breathe but loud enough for his eyes to snap over for a split second, turmoil blatant across his face. “Stark.”

He shakes his head, pointing an accusing finger and an uneasy scowl. “No. You don’t get a say.”

“Hear him out, Tony,” Nat adds from the side. She got one hand reached out towards him, one towards Vision to stop him from pressing forward.

The tension bubbles over between Stark’s unsteady eyes and his rising anxiety. He’s seen that face: saw it back in Siberia in that bunker before Zemo played the video, seen it in the damn mirror every morning. He still can’t anticipate the hero’s next words, spoken with a voice so dry and emotionless that he doesn’t even recognize it. “Take him into containment. Level nine access.”

For a terrifying moment, he contemplates shoving Vision back, planting his boot under his synthetic ribcage, hopefully fast enough to beat his ability to phase through. Then he’d grab the gun on his hip, aim for Rhodes first, just to get him to back off long enough to get Sam in the air, an arrow on Clint’s bow. He’d shove Red behind him, get them all back onto the tarmac before Ross came to finish what he started.

But he doesn’t.

Rhodes sees the look on his face and shakes his head just imperceptibly enough for Steve to question whether or not he imagined it.

He lets Vision move past him and wrap a vibranium hand around Red’s bicep. To his credit, the kid doesn’t struggle like he did the first time, just nods and relaxes, lets Vision lead him away with a stoic face and cold authority.

Clint bristles with fury behind him and even Nat’s gaze has darkened. His own stomach grows warm with a familiar anger and he swears that there’s snow under his nails, blood in his teeth.

“Cap—“ Rhodes offers cautiously. He’s got his hand out like he’s some kind of mindless animal.

“Don’t,” he bites out and it’s only with a great amount of self control that he stops his voice from carrying all the rage in his chest. He shouldn’t have bothered because Tony turns, eye narrowed into charcoal slits of what he thinks might be hatred.

“Don’t give me that shit, Rogers—“

“I said don’t.”

His eyes flare and then he’s charging forward. Everyone moves, no matter how little. Sam surges forward to intercept before Rhodes is holding Tony back by the suit’s upper arm. He’s sure that if his mind were clear, he’d know all sort of ways to get out of the Mark II’s hold, but now he’s far too gone to challenge Rhodey’s strength. Natasha’s hand flies down to her sidearm and he knows that even though it’s instinct, it kills her. Clint’s fingers an arrow over his shoulder eyes like chips of ice, _daring_ his former leader to do anything more than breathe. _His partner. His co-leader._

_“Actually, he’s the boss. I just pay for everything and design everything. Make everyone look cooler.”_

He’d rolled his eyes then. Dismissed him like he always does. But now—now he just wishes he’d _shut up._

“You don’t get to come back giving orders!” he snarls and Steve wonders how much of this has just been pent up, because he’s got a lot to return. “You gave that up a long time ago.”

It all erupts then, because there’s desert wind and rosemary and the fusion tastes like heaven. Fury pours out bare when he slices his hand through the air in a motion so aggressive that even Rhodes tenses. “He’s a goddamned _kid!_ For Christ’s sake, where do you draw the line?”

“I draw the line between me and my enemies. If you can’t accept that then you’re more than welcome to join him.”

“Easy, Tones,” Rhodes murmurs, returning his gaze to the fuming genius. It doesn’t work because he tries to shove his hands away, eyes burning into his own.

“FRIDAY scanned every single one of you the second you stepped out of the quinjet. Did you even frisk him or are you just trusting middle schoolers with sharp objects now?”

“You’re one to talk, Stark,” Sam scoffs. He can tell it’s an empty jab—he’s more nervous than angry—but he goes for it anyway. “Where’s that spider kid?”

Tony’s eyes get a lot darker then—Rhodey’s too when he loosens his hold just barely. Warnings blare in his head and he reaches out slowly, anger not quite strong enough to rationalize an actual ass-kicking at the moment. “Sam.” Because somewhere in those two years that he missed, ‘That Spider Kid’ became a lot more important than he thinks he realizes.

Tony finally snatches his arm own of Rhodey’s hold and judging by the look on the Colonel’s face, he lets him. “That kid’s got two knives on him right now that none of you were smart enough to check for.”

“Do you even remember what we do for a living, Stark? That’s impossible,” Clint growls and Tony doesn’t even spare him a glare, all eyes for Steve.

“I’m done following you,” he says lowly, taking another step forward and he can smell the sweat on his skin, see it on his neck before the suit blocks it from his view. There’s a shiver there, mixed with something he doesn’t recognize. He’s choking on it, almost gags; _rosemary._ “You fall in line or I’ll put you there.” He looks at Nat. Her hand hasn’t moved and Tony’s eyes snap down for just a second. And for a moment there’s pain. The two share half a second of something he can’t read—something he doesn’t want to.

“Back the hell off,” Sam warns.

“He can speak for himself,” Rhodes says. His gaze is harder now, no longer apologetic and diplomatic. No—this is War Machine.

“You keep talking and you’ll be speaking around my fist,” Clint snarls. The arrow’s on his finger now, knocked on the string at his side.

He wants to stop them, wants to deescalate the situation because that’s who _Captain America_ is. That’s who he’s supposed to be. And just like that, he knows that it's not who he _wants_ to be. “Like Wanda was? Clint? Lang?” he says softly, raising his eyes to Tony’s warm glass rage.

“Who?”

It bubbles up again. No more showing his belly or playing the middleman. Stark hurt his team, hurt Bucky, scarred Wanda, blamed Sam, blamed Nat, Clint—blamed _him._ For doing the right thing. He’s sick of getting shit for it. Sick of Tony’s close-minded ideals and _selfishness._ “My team, Stark! The one you put in _line—_ the team you put in the raft!” The anger is explosive. He’s never raised his voice at them—any of them, and while this makes a first, it’s not the last. That he’s sure of.

Tony’s eyes are wide. “I told you what would happen—“

“A straight jacket. They had her in a straight jacket.”

His face curdles and slips so deeply into despair that he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to dig himself out of it. “What did you want me to do?!” he shouts, voice actually _cracking._

Natasha finally lets her hand fall and maneuvers her way in between them all. “Both of you cut it out. Now is not the time.” She looks at Tony, close enough to touch him while he heaves, face almost as red as Steve’s own. “Tony, the kid will only talk to you.”

“That’s not my problem,” he says stiffly. The suit whirs when he leans away from her, face once again a blank canvas.

Clint scoffs but there’s a desperate edge in his voice that Steve’s learned to pick up on.“You’re not going to hear him out?”

He sneers. “Ross can decide to process him when he comes in for the debrief.” He hesitates for a moment and then the faceplate comes back. “Stick around if you want—I wouldn’t, considering your track record.”

He doesn’t wait for them to step back or move out of the way, just lets the heat of the thrusters and the wind blast their faces before he’s gone.

“He doesn’t mean that.” Rhodey’s voice is quiet and almost inaudible, not only after the roar of Stark’s thrusters, but over the blood in Steve’s ears, the anger still tearing through his veins when he clenches his fists and tries to rein it all in.

“It sounded like he did,” he snaps bitterly, unable to stop the toxicity in his voice. If there’s one thing he can still count on Tony to do, it’s to put himself before everyone else.

He was right: they shouldn’t have come back. He was stupid to hope for anything good to come of this.

“Do you blame him?” Rhodes snaps back with the same hostility. He closes his eyes then, takes a deep breath before shaking his head. “I’m sorry.” It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The reality of the situation hits him.

This is supposed to be home. He’s supposed to feel safe here and all he’s done is… fuck. “We shouldn’t have come here.” He drags his hand down his face. He’s so fucking tired. The guilt starts to claw back in the absence of anger.

Clint unloads his bow, returns the arrow to the quivers and speaks brusquely. “Wanda disappeared last night after a pretty intense bout of psionic attacks. Is there anything you’d know about that?”

Rhodes looks apprehensive, shifts in the suit while his eyes stop on each of them before he finally replies with a tired sigh. “There was a power surge that took out some neighborhoods in Manhattan around that time. Tony and I’ve been on damage control ever since.”

“Manhattan?” Steve echoes numbly.

He nods after hesitating. “The tower. The arc reactor malfunctioned and damaged a couple blocks. No casualties but we’ve been trying to figure out what went wrong.”

“That could be a coincidence,” Natasha says under her breath and it’s directed to him.

“Maybe if it was just that,” he says.

Rhodes looks between them with an unreadable look. “The kid.”

“He calls himself Red Robin,” Sam supplies.

His eyebrow raises. “Like the—“

“Yeah.” Sam smiles, albeit cautiously. “Shows up right after Wanda disappeared, right in the backyard.”

“How did he get there?”

“As far as we can tell, he doesn’t know.”

“Or just won’t talk,” Nat says. Her arms are crossed but not in her usual confidence. Her hands turn inward to grasp at her arms, almost defensively. “He’s why we’re here. Stark seems to know why.”

The Colonel looks away for a split second, long enough to pique Steve’s suspicion. “Why? Did you get something off him?”

“No. Just a feeling,” he says, trying not to let his intentions bleed through.

“You still get those?” Rhodes raises a sardonic eyebrow. He looks like he might apologize again and Steve isn’t sure whether he wants him to or not. “Stay until the heat dies down. ATCU is crawling over NYC and you shouldn’t risk another flight through airspace right now.”

The surprise must be obvious on his face. He can see it on Sam’s and Clint’s too.

“It’s a court martial if you let us,” he cautions.

Rhodey just scoffs sadly, shoulders dropping. “You and me both.”

 

* * *

 

Sam’s life exists in halves: before Steve, and after Steve. Before, it was bright—not a good bright. It was hazy and confusing and everywhere he looked there was sun. There was sand in between his toes and his socks, in between his teeth. The sun liked to chew up his skin, skipping straight past the sunburn and right into something that resembled the crispy bits at the bottom of a deep fryer.

God, he loved it. Following orders was simple. It was easy having someone to tell him what to do, to look out for him. His recruiter was right: the brass didn’t give a shit about him but that was okay. His commanding officer did. His unit did.

Man, they saw combat almost as often as they saw the sunrise. He’d take back everything he told his ma about chores being hard, grab a million switches from the yard and eat a thousand bars of soap to take it all back because a lot of those firefights had a bullet with his name on it.

There were nights where he’d sit against the sandbags, holding his rifle almost as tightly as he’d held Riley’s hand until the dumbass would smile, teeth covered in blood and sand, asking him if he was scared. He’d wince when the next wave hit, calling him insane and that yes, he was scared out of his mind. And Riley’d grin even wider before taking out three insurgents in one spray. That was the last night they were strangers and the first that they were brothers.

They did everything together. The guys teased them and Ry—Ry had been so nice about it. He’d sand his knuckles in their hair until they were breathless with laughter, begging for forgiveness. He’d pull those stupid harmless pranks in the barracks that even the most sleep deprived of them all would wake up giggling to.

And he’d been there when his ma called. When she told him about his father. He’d been there when Mac broke down in his bunk holding an ultrasound of his little girl. After Helmand when they’d lost Green during evac. When the Christmas cards from who-knows Elementary School came in and they all pretended to be okay.  

He never asked for anything, instead gave everything.

It was routine. Nothing was supposed to go wrong but it did. Callaghan and Lincoln were already on the ground. It was one of those nights so clear and bright that you didn’t need NVGs.

He could’ve done it in his sleep.

He remembers the blast. It knocked him right out of the air.

There was nothing left of Riley to even fall to the ground.

Meeting Steve brought that brotherhood back. He didn’t need to shut people out anymore or pretend to be afraid of flying. Because he wasn’t. All those years at the VA, he missed it. It was where he belonged and it still is.

Steve is the one who pushed him back out of the nest.

But Rhodes is the wind under his wings.

They’d officially met at Stark’s party after Strucker’s apprehension. He’d recognized that smile—the same one that Riley had when the Taliban was lighting up their cover.

It wasn’t until after the whole Ultron thing blew over that Rhodey actually asked him to go flying. _“Just a joy ride,”_ he’d said. _“I’ve seen your moves, Wilson. They’re pretty good.”_

 _“Pretty good?”_ he’d echoed before he could stop himself. And Rhodes knew then that he’d won.

Flying alone was easy. There’s no RPG coming up from the surface, exploding on his right. There’s no Riley, looking at him terrified before he was just debris in the sky.

Seeing War Machine flying just at his one-o'clock, ten feet away, he couldn’t stop seeing the explosion, feeling the heat on his face and shrapnel in his skin.

Rhodey knew. And he didn’t care that Sam was fucked up and that working at the VA was just a bandaid for a wound that wasn’t healing. He just picked him up.

He should’ve known that it would happen again: two-o’clock, there one second, gone the next.

All because of a stupid piece of paper.

“How ya doin’, Rhodey?” he grins once Stark’s stinging retreat has stopped burning the air.

He just smiles and starts walking. Even in the armor, he makes it work, throwing his arms around Sam’s shoulders and pulling him close. “I’ve been better, Sammy. But I’m good now.”

 

* * *

 

He barely makes it to the lab before the gasps are tearing out of his lungs despite all his best efforts to swallow them down. He can feel his heart in his fingertips and it hurts. There’s a searing pain in his chest, like his bones are being crushed, ribs snapping, lungs ripping. Dampness on his skin, seeping through his shirt. He manages to get shaky fingers under his collar, fumbling with the fabric before it rips. It digs into his skin when it finally gives but it’s off, and he can splay his hands across his chest where the arc reactor used to be—where the shield used to be.

It healed a long time ago, he knows that. FRIDAY tells him every morning; that he’s safe, he’s back in New York. He’s warm.

He tears off the rest of the shirt because it’s choking him, nowhere near his neck.

_“Boss? Your heart rate is—“_

He tries not to snap because it’s not her fault that her voice isn’t the one he wants to hear, not her fault that even after _three fucking years_ she’s still not JARVIS. “I know, Fry. Just…” But she does care about him. There’s a note of concern, borderline panic that he doesn’t remember writing into her code. He just repeats himself, trying to reel in his breath until it doesn’t sound like he’s just run a damn marathon. “Where is he?”

And just like him, runs off virtually the same code with the same flare of ambiguity that’s left room for things that couldn’t possibly be room for emotion—but was; she knows exactly who he means. She’s intuitive like that. _“Captain Rogers appears to be in the hangar currently conversing with Colonel Rhodes and Samuel Wilson.”_

She doesn’t pull up the video feed and he reminds himself to thank her for it later.

_He’s back._

Captain America. Pin-up of the 20th century, poster boy for patriotism and honesty and everything that’s supposed to be _good._ All the hero stories and legends that added up to one blond-haired blue-eyed Adonis with a mother-knows-best complex.

He’s not stupid. Hadn’t idiotic enough to hope against hope that he wouldn’t come back. It had to come sooner or later and Tony had definitely been banking on the latter.

He remembers the propranolol in his desk, the one he forgot to take and swallows two tablets dry, willing them to work faster.

But he hasn’t had enough time. Not enough time for the nightmares of cold iron to stop, of his mom screaming, his dad’s broken _“Sergeant Barnes?”_ before the son of a bitch murdered him while she watched. No, it’s too soon.

And for what? A kid? That’s not like Steve at all. He doesn’t listen to reason, or logic. He threw the last kid he met into a pedestrian ramp and then dropped it on him. Their excuse is shit, and they know it. Wanda falling off the map is more than a blessing than anything else but he knows that he’s the only one to have that sentiment except for Bruce maybe, but he’s just another friend who left him.

Everything _hurts._

“Call T’Challa, FRIDAY.”

The line rings while he tries to compose himself. He’s got spare clothes in the back, grabbing a loose sweatshirt he doesn’t remember owning and pulling it over his head when he returns to his desk chair. _“No answer, boss,”_ FRIDAY says dejectedly when he sinks down, rubbing his face.

That’s okay, he thinks. It’s hard to decode the strange mixture of relief and disappointment churning in his stomach. There’s a noise that sounds suspiciously like a garbage disposal and then Dum-E is running into his knee, an incessant presence demanding to be acknowledged. It whirs insistently until he lays an awkward hand on what he has labeled “HEAD.” Dum-E chirps and spins twice before returning to whatever it had been doing before: puttering around the lab “tidying.”

He rubs his eyes. “Can you get into their systems?” he relents finally, leaning his elbows on the desk cluttered with small computer and robotics parts, projects and ideas that made sense until he put them on paper. “What do they have on the kid?”

It takes her a moment, he assumes to get past the admittedly robust firewalls of Wakanda’s top security and medical labs, but when she does, she sounds just as fake chipper as Dum-E.

A human model is displayed on the screen with a multitude of other information. A rather _small_ multitude.

_“Unidentified male between the ages of seventeen and twenty. No public or criminal record. No facial matches. No known medical records.”_

He lets his thumb drift to his lips, letting his nail balance precariously between his teeth. “Did they do preliminary medical?”

 _“Various x-rays and MRIs.”_ It comes up overlaid in red beside the body model, suspended in the air like all the rest of his tech. _“No signs of enhancement—mutagens or otherwise. Preliminary blood work did show a significantly low number of white blood cells.”_

“No spleen?”

_“It would appear that way.”_

Odd. And dangerous. Certainly far from the weirdest thing that had come out of the kid’s untimely appearance, and not the most alarming either. _Alternate universe, my ass._

Tony is a scientist. Jane Foster had consulted him on her Einstein-Rosen bridge and Convergence theories more times that he can remember, despite the fact that it’s out of even _his_ realm of expertise (not that she—or her loud-mouthed intern—didn’t love to hold it over his head), but _alternate realities?_ Undeniably straight out of science fiction. The kid’s obviously on some new kind of bud—a kind he wouldn’t mind getting his hands on either.

“What could they determine about past injuries?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning back. He should call Foster.

The red appears over certain junctions in the model as she speaks, enlarging and turning. _“Several broken bones in the hands and arms, broken ribs and a significant amount of scar tissue across the abdomen and torso.”_

So. A pothead with thing for masochism. A little young, but probably not unheard of.

One thing he can’t pin on the grass though: what he’d said. _You know why I’m here._ No seventeen year-olds eyes should pierce that deep. _You’ve seen it and so have I._

Of course, there’s only one logical thing he could mean. But it’s also something he couldn’t know about. Not him, or Steve, or even Rhodey. No—the only one who could know hasn’t been seen for years and as far as he knows, is still on vacation on some obscure island or another.

_Unless he’s enhanced like the Maximoffs._

But that’s impossible too, because Vision’s got the Mind Stone, and—Wakanda wouldn’t have checked for Inhuman DNA or Terrigen exposure.

He starts shoving stuff off his desk, into drawers—wherever. There’s a syringe around here somewhere, maybe in Bruce’s old lab. Definitely in Cho’s. Something shatters on the floor and Dum-E chitters angrily.

“Did they log a name?” he asks, looking for a pencil, his notepad. Fuck it, there’s a brand new pack of them on the other desk. FRIDAY’s calling him back before he can get the plastic off.

_“T’Challa is on the line, boss.”_

She doesn’t wait for him to accept, simply pushes the call through and then the King of fucking Wakanda is raising an eyebrow at him with plastic wrap in his mouth.

 _“Stark,”_ is all he says and there’s reluctant amusement in his voice.

Tony scowls, slightly embarrassed when he spits out the trash on his tongue, “You just dumped four UN criminals and a not-so-happy Happy Meal on my doorstep.”

T’Challa’s smile drops, gazing through the camera with thinly veiled urgent concern. _“I trust they arrived safely?”_

His anger comes back, albeit muted considering who’s on the other end of the line. “As safely as they can with the entire world hunting them down.” He turns away from the display, leaning over his feet to start scribbling on the notepad. “Just because I haven’t ratted you out to Ross doesn’t mean I won’t.”

The tone of his voice makes the pencil freeze. _“Be careful threatening me, Stark.”_ And well, he hates T'Challa almost as much as he loves him. At least they’re still on _speaking terms. “Have you spoken to the boy?”_

He raises an eyebrow, dropping his pencil and turning back around. “You don’t have much on him, do you?” Wakanda’s got some of the best engineers in the world, that’s not even an argument, it’s a fact. But their cyber security? It could use a little work to say the least. Regardless, by his own standards—which are _high—_ it’s impressive.

He smiles dryly, knowingly but doesn’t comment. _“Enough to know that he is important. And that so are you,”_ he adds seriously after a moment and his stomach twists again.

He scoffs. “Yeah, he made that very clear.” There’s a moment where they’re just looking at each other. He sees what he always does: a man with a lot more than him in almost every department except age and failure. He wonders if T’Challa knows just how much these calls torture him. He wonders what he sees. “What happened to Maximoff, T’Challa?”

The king’s nostrils flare, a motion so minute he almost misses it.   _“She did not do this. Not alone at least.”_ He wants to hit something because the man’s first response is to defend her from him. None of them know. They don’t have a damn clue. His eyes harden then, jaw tightening with a concern that isn’t completely diplomatic, that hold something a little warmer that Tony’s forgotten the name of. _“Talk to the boy. Soon. I fear that he brings war.”_

And just like that, like everything else he’s gone too.

Great, so his role-model for good decisions and closest thing to a (reliable) moral compass he has (because apparently his own is only good at trusting compulsive liars, hypocrites, and prevents him from avenging his mother— _it’s literally in the job description, he should be_ fired), has also been duped by this chain restaurant-named universe hopper.

It hurts when he slams his head on the table top.

He keeps finding himself in these situations: the ones where his gut is telling him one thing and everyone else is telling him the opposite. Well—that’s not true. His gut is telling him…

His gut doesn’t tell him anything. Not nicely anyway.

He barely makes it to the wastebasket before his his entire lunch is coming back up. All three water bottles of it.

And _that_ hasn't happened in… months. Not since the last time Ross had _“surprised”_ him with a wellness check. Not long enough to forget the burn of stomach acid or to forget about the half-empty bottle of Listerine by his hand.

Good ol’ Listerine.

“Sir.” It’s Vision’s voice that calls out from the door across the room. He’s still swishing, spits when he sees the company.

The anger returns but it’s not so hot to the touch. He can put on his game face. For a while at least.

“Agents,” he says, wiping his mouth on the shirt he’d ripped earlier. He tosses it with his lunch, Dum-E already moving forward to take care of it. He really deserves a floppy disc, or something. “You are still agents, right?”

“Until further notice—“ and, “Not since SHIELD fell,” they say at the same time. It’s easier to hear their voices without Him around.

It still feels like a cheese grater carving off slivers of his teeth, but hey. Small victories.

“Don’t worry,” Barton says in what he’s learned is the marksman’s home brewed brand of a scowl. “This ain’t a wellness check.”

Natasha doesn’t say a damn thing which he guesses is better than her saying anything.

He smiles dryly. “Right.” Rhodey follows them in dragging a small black chest and he sniffs. “I hope that isn’t a bomb.”

“You’re not that lucky,” Barton scoffs

This time, he gets Rhodey’s glare before he jerks his chin for help. “They brought the kid’s gear. Thought maybe we could identify some of it, connect it to Pym or Hammer.”

Tony meets him halfway, gets his leg under the—surprisingly heavy—case and then Vision is taking it from the both of them, silently and effortlessly lifting it and setting it on one of the extensions of his desk. “I haven’t agreed to anything,” he says to the dynamic duo while they watch, frowning.

Natasha looks emotionless as ever, a fact that is decidedly unfair. Her voice is soft. “We wouldn’t be here if there was any other choice. You know that.”

“Do I?” slips off his tongue before he can stop it. He catches the surprise in her eyes before the cool green comes back. He used to know her better than he knew himself. Now he can’t recognize either of them.

Barton scowls again, louder this time. “You’re not the only one who lost shit in the divorce, Stark. Just open the damn box.”

Rhodey looks like he might snap and Tony silently wills him to go off. Too often, Tony thinks, Barton and Rogers forget that regardless of branch or service, Rhodey undoubtedly outranks them all. He’s spent enough time in military company to know that much.

Regardless, Rhodey turns to him stiffly, opening the case between them. “All these were found on his person.”

Tony’s joints feel like rocks grinding together even when he watches. “The kid was packin’.”

He shakes his head, listing items as he takes them out. Before long, half the table top is covered with gear, laid out neatly and tactically. FRIDAY starts to catalog them as he lays them out, the blue overlay appearing promptly over each item. He feels his eyebrows furrowing even as Natasha gazes at him. “Military-grade grappling equipment, retractable bo staff, various communication devices, smoke grenades, bolas—“

“All non-lethal,” Barton interrupts. His arms are crossed, only further exemplifying his bad attitude.

“Except these.” Vision moves in between Natasha and Rhodey, reaching into the crate and lifting out a small forensic bag with deft fingers.

He hears Rhodey curse, with awe or shock, he doesn’t know but his fingers are gentle when he passes it over.

He meets him halfway, finally stepping up to the table. He knows what it is before FRIDAY has the chance to tell him, balancing the weight against his fingers, testing the sharpened edge against his skin. “Sharpened titanium alloy. I used to use it to modify infantry firearms. Never seen it in projectiles.” FRIDAY’s overlay confirms it, blue, just like in the suit, curling across his fingers to encircle the weapon.

“Almost like the suit,” Rhodey echoes.  “Are these shuriken?”

Nat nods. “That’s the consensus.” She jerks her chin to the end of the table. “Belt and gauntlet.”

This time he doesn’t hang back or hesitate. The pieces are small in his hands, which—in a way—is alarming. Tony isn’t a big guy but he’s built gear for Peter who’s even smaller. He isn’t sure some of this stuff would fit even him.

Still, the craft is elegant from an engineer’s standpoint. Everything about the design is sleek and efficient, but not without a certain flair. The clasps where the different plates fit together are almost invisible, seamless even to his trained eye, except—

Vision instantly knows what he’s thinking because he’s handing him a screwdriver before he has to ask. He braces the gauntlet on the desk before gently wedging the head in, raising one of the plates delicately before it’s coaxed open.

The circuitry is… intricate. It’s obviously professionally manufactured, personally built by hand and experience. Whoever had built this has an extensive background in robotics and electrical engineering—someone almost as good as him. He can help the low whistle, setting it back down to let FRIDAY start her analysis.

Rhodey curses too, leaning forward. Even though his friend’s expertise is in aerospace and generally not something so compact, they’ve been peers long enough to be familiar with each other’s trade. He knows that Rhodey genuinely appreciates the sight before him. “You ever seen shit like this?” he asks, glancing up.

Vision leans over his shoulder and looks so troubled that for a moment he almost reaches out.

He can’t help the finger that reaches back out to run along the gauntlet’s finely tapered cuff. “I drafted something similar for… a friend a while back but nothing this complicated.” He thinks about rocks and things that shake, a sarcastic smile and eyes darker than his own.

“‘Friend?’” Clint echoes sardonically and the thought turns sour before he can help it.

“Yeah,” he harks back over Nat’s shoulder. “The non-backstabbing kind.”

Rhodey stops him before anything else happens, testing a dry palm on his forearm. “Just tell us what you need.”

“Whatever you can tell us about what happened,” Vision adds and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say the android sounds like he’s _pleading._  “Wanda. In particular.” There’s bile on his tongue again and for his friends’ sakes, he swallows it back down.

Natasha crosses her arms, shooting Clint a sideways look. “We were in France, countryside taking out Leo Pèrez. Barnes reached out to us, said something was going on with Wanda. Her powers…”

Her eyes flick to his when she says his name but he’s learned to stop flinching when he hears it. Besides, he can’t really hear her over the screaming in his head.

His parents screaming.

He turns around, braces his hands on his desk and lets himself have just this moment. _Pathetic._

_Years. It’s been fucking years._

Years that he blamed his dad. For drinking. For getting behind the wheel. For waiting until dark to drive. For never even making it to the goddamned plane.

Rhodey doesn’t come any closer, keeps the attention away and instead it’s Vision who’s gotten so used to reading him and mothering him that all he has to do is block him from their view while he stares at his hands, his white knuckles.

_Cracked fingernails, ripped bleeding skin. There’s ice in his lungs, blood in his breath. He tastes metal. Tastes vibranium in his chest._

“She was bending reality. Weird, hocus pocus shit.” His voice changes like it did back in Sokovia, after the other Maximoff kid went down like a sack of potatoes and all hell broke loose. “Steve and I went in and she—she was fucked up. When I reached out to grab her I—“

She’s been in his head since the Strucker mission. She never really left it.

_You could’ve saved us._

His nails, even blunt, break the scabs in his palms and there’s blood again.

“She knocked him out cold and she was gone,” Nat finishes and the silence stings.

“Just like that?” Rhodey says.

Nat must raise an eyebrow. “Expecting something different?”

He scoffs. “Just keep going.”

“No trace of her. I stayed back with Clint when T’Challa got an alert about a trespasser on the grounds.”

But no matter how much he hates Wanda, Vision never could.

His voice croaks he thinks when he turns his head to the android, his face frozen. “Hey, man.”

_Wanda, you hurt Vision’s feelings._

“It’s impossible,” he says.

Rhodey reaches over, takes Vision’s forearm in a one-handed grip. “We’re going to find her as soon as we figure out what to do with Red Robin.” Their eyes meet.

Oh, it hurts him. It _kills_ him to even _think_ about saying the words but his mental health doesn’t even come close to scraping the list of priorities when it comes to Rhodes and Vis. “She’s one of us, Vision. We’ll get her back.”

_You locked me in my room._

He can feel Nat’s surprise, Clint’s apprehension and disbelief but he can ignore it for now because Vision’s gripping his hand so tightly that he thinks it staunches the weeping crescents in his palm. He shakes his head. “I should have known.”

“There’s no way—“

“But there is.” His eyes squeeze shut and Tony feels the first real rush of concern. Seeing Vision in distress had never been easy. After Rhodey’s fall, after he’d been flown back to Vienna from Siberia with a disturbingly low chance of survival, he’d truly gotten to see the android mope—and it was almost as horrible of a sight as Peter in that godawful budget Spider-Man costume he’d ditched prom for. “I felt it. A change.”

Vision’s just as much his creation as Dum-E, You, JARVIS. And God help whoever thinks they can hurt his machines and get away with it.

He moves fully to Vision’s side, lets his hand move to his shoulder until he looks him in the eye. “In the Stone?”

Vision frowns, nods and shakes his head all at the same time. “Yes. I thought it was—“

“The headaches,” Rhodey finishes. His own frown is heavy with worry.

“You get headaches?” Barton scoffs with a note of bitterness that catches on the edge of Tony’s patience. Again, Rhodey answers before he can say something he definitely won’t regret.

“Not until recently. We don’t know what’s causing them.”

“It was disturbed,” Vision adds. His hand moves up to his forehead, slender fingers reaching up to probe the Stone gently. It glows brighter when he touches it, pulsing with just enough force that Tony can feel it on his cheeks.

He drops his hand from his shoulder. “It could’ve been her. It’s where she got her powers from,” he spitballs. Truthfully, he couldn't care less about the Maximoff kid. Well, that isn’t entirely true. Vision has some sort of attachment to her so by association—and to his disgust—so does he. And of course fate would have it that his greatest creation would be in kahoots with his worst nightmare. As if his life isn’t a freak show already.

“Perhaps,” Vision murmurs. He’s lost in thought now, not even looking up when he dismisses himself. “Excuse me.”

But he’d put up with it like he always does. He’d never really had a choice about that, from Sokovia, to the Vision-sized pit she drilled through the entire building _(if love isn’t absolutely_ fucking _blind, then Cupid must be)._

His footsteps are—like always—silent. He really has to put a bell on him. He and Peter are both far too silent to be walking around without one.

“I swear, we look like the Montagues and Capulets.” Clint’s scoff is what breaks the silence a few stiff moments later.

“Dibs on Montague.” It slips out despite himself and he holds his breath.

Barton scoffs again, dryly. “I’m a total Mercutio.”

“If anything, you’re Tybalt and I’m Mercutio.”

The banter, it’s… tame. It reminds him of how he remembers Barton: a coffee-driven idiot that just so happened to be good at throwing things. One of his favorite coffee-driven idiots.

It means nothing and everything when Clint doesn’t snarl at him after that, doesn’t smile either, just lets the interaction rest on their tongues until they remember the taste.

_Watch your back. He might break it._

Maybe they’ll never get back there, maybe the Accords are a wound that cut too deep. And maybe… maybe it just needs stitches.

Nat either can’t or can’t be bothered to mask the smile at the exchange and it sours his mood again.

“What else?” Rhodes sighs, dragging a hand down his face, either at the Wanda-y intermission or Shakespearean references. He starts to pace slowly, walking along the length of his desk while raking his gaze through the amassment of Red Robin-y equipment.

Nat seems content enough with continuing while he and Barton try to figure out which of them will break first. “Apparently he put up a hell of a fight. He shot down Sam and had the upper hand on Cap. Barnes couldn’t tag him and he would’ve fought both Steve and T’Challa to a standstill until Sam held him up.”

“Barnes shot at a minor?” Rhodey deadpans, stilling in his movements and fixing Natasha with a cold, raised eyebrow.

“That’s still in the wind,” Clint waves dismissively. He’s sitting now, when he moved Tony doesn’t really know. He leg is cocked back, foot propped up on the table while he leans back as far as possible.

Tony wills him to fall.

Nat returns her own crooked eyebrow. “He shot at a confirmed hostile engaging my commanding officer.”

Dum-E whirs by his knee and there’s a cup of water brushing his hand. Water and a pack of Iron Man band-aids. “Right, because what’s one more war crime?” “I don’t remember you putting a jury box in containment.” “We’ve done some renovations,” he says just to be petty. Her eyebrow quirks. “Involving detaining a minor and right to a trial?” “You’ve been gone awhile.” He spits but forgets the venom and Barton cracks a smile he hasn’t seen in years. It’s one he can’t quite return but he thinks the glint in the archer’s eyes says he doesn’t need to.

“He’s had training,” Nat continues. Survival, tactical, combat, espionage, counter-interrogation; before Sam stepped in he was holding his own against two men twice his size, more than twice his strength. And winning.”

“Surely Cap would have laid him out if he wanted,” he says, returning to the arrangement of weaponry. Barton had been right: none of it is lethal—on it’s own anyway. Out of all the equipment, a regular old gun wouldn’t be so out of place, but there is none. The only thing that comes close is a grappling gun, sleekly designed with a hand he’s not familiar with. Everything is compact, engineered to slip discreetly into pockets and folds that an untrained eye might not see. He examines the gauntlet again, turning the armor over to reveal what would rest along the inner wrist. There are grooves and slots carved out—grooves that might just fit about a dozen or so of the bat-shaped shuriken.

Barton watches him. “In the long run, maybe. Steve is fast but the kid saw everything coming. He knew how to fight someone way stronger than him. Even if Steve wasn’t holding back, he would’ve had a hard time hitting him.”

“He’s human, right?” Rhodey asks.

“As far as Wakanda’s doctors can tell.”

“Which isn’t very far,” he says. “FRIDAY’s re-analyzing the blood work now.” And she is. He doesn’t know yet if he’ll need a fresher sample but he can use what he can from Wakanda’s archives if it keeps him in the lab. He swipes a finger through the air, instructing the AI to analyze any biological material left on Red Robin’s gear—the shuriken in particular. If they can’t figure out who the kid is, they can at least figure out who he’s been tumbling around with.

Rhodey nods and before he can say anything else, his phone buzzes against his hip. He glances down at his watch before throwing the rest of them a slightly apologetic look. “Alright. Let me know. I have to take this.” He hides his smirk well but not well enough for Rhodey to miss it. As if he could hide someone of that caliber from him anyways, and honestly: it’s about damn time. To his credit, he returns the smirk and a roll of his eyes. “Clint, we’ve got a secure line you can use if you want.”

The archer blinks, looks back at Nat before nodding and hopping to his feet. “Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great.”

“Let’s go, I’ll show you.”

“Awesome, man. That a girl you’ve got waiting?” Their voices fade when they walk out the glass doors, Clint leaning into Rhodey’s shoulder stiffly, but with a degree of camaraderie none of them had half an hour earlier.

“Oh man, not you too…”

No. Nothing will ever be normal again. But maybe that doesn’t mean that it can’t be _good_ again.

But then there’s _her._ And her presence hurts almost as much as Roger’s.

Because he’d trusted her and counted on her to stay, to choose his side. But just like everything else, Steve took her too.

“Unless you’ve got a master’s in mechanical engineering or a background in weapons manufacturing that I don’t know about, the door is that way.”

She doesn’t look surprised when his voice goes blank and hostile again, like flipping a switch. His stomach flips again. She doesn’t look like much of anything. Maybe disappointed or exasperated, but he can’t tell anymore. He wonders if he’d ever been able to or if it was only ever what she’d wanted him to know.

“Is this how it’s going to be from now on?” she says finally when the sounds of the lab keep going: the hum of FRIDAY’s processors—that he could make silent if he wanted to, but he likes the noise. Anything is better than the quiet. The clicking that Dum-E makes when he’s “stressed” sounds from the other side of his desk and he can’t see the robot but he bets his latest suit that he’s peering at the spy from some unseen peephole.

“Leo Pérez, huh?” he says because he knows that she’s not going to leave, not even if he forces her to (ha). So he plants the gauntlet on the desk and grabs the screwdriver. “FRIDAY, show me the good stuff.”

The display comes up instantly, a projected view of the armor’s entire circuitry. He taps the tool’s handle against his lips.

“Figured he’d kept his Most Wanted seat long enough.”

Right. Pérez. It’s not a name he remembers from any mission or briefing, but rather one in SHIELD’s files when snooping through them still yielded a lead worth chasing. Back during Ultron when they were digging through paper trails. Yeah, he remembers Pérez: bad dude involved with human trafficking and experimentation. Johnson had said something about Terrigen too the last time they’d spoken but she’d never been able to pin anything concrete on him before he was off the map again. He’ll let her know the next time he’s in Utah. She may not be too happy that someone had gotten to him before her, but she’d be pleased enough to know that he isn’t still breathing.

“We ran into some trouble,” she says.

“That right?” He doesn’t recognize some of the materials. Some of the elements won’t scan but it’s clear that some of it is part of a communication module. He tags the unknowns, archives them for further analysis.

“Steve was hit.”

_You can’t beat him hand-to-hand!_

He hates how his fingers freeze against the metal, how he almost drops the screwdriver and his heart starts pounding all over again.

Steve had been hit before. With Chitauri blasts, Ultron lackeys… his own repulsors. Regular bullets? A walk in the park. It should be.

_Analyze his fight pattern._

Her voice goes soft and he thinks she’s coming closer. He wonders if she sees the display in the corner of one of his monitors, the one flashing red because his heart’s beating so fast it hurts. “I know it’s going to be a while before you forgive him, but I’m not asking for that.” If there was anything left in his stomach, he’s sure it’d be on the floor by now.

_Countermeasures ready._

“Bold of you to assume I will,” he manages chalkily. His finger jabs a key and his heart rate disappears. He isn’t naive enough to pretend like she didn’t see it, like she was playing him like an instrument. It’s all she ever did.

All she’ll ever do. “You’re both too selfless to do anything else.” _You care about him too much._ “Why didn’t you tell him?”

_Let’s kick his ass._

“I don’t think you get to ask me that.”

“About Carter.”

There it is: that irrational thought in the back of his head saying that if he moves fast enough, he could beat her. Brute force trumps skill, right? He’s almost willing to try it but his hands won’t cooperate. So he hides them, presses them to his thighs where he hopes she can’t see because they’re shaking—with anger or terror, he doesn’t know.

“Nat, don’t.”

“You had every right to be at that funeral.”

She smelled like Mom after everything had happened. Whenever he’d been sober enough to tell, that is. When Rhodey had found him night after night with a bottle in his hand, after the close call that landed him in the ICU for two nights while they pumped his stomach and his head with brochures and pamphlets about grief counseling and sobriety. When he’d clocked the doctor that told him that Maria would be ashamed of him, would be appalled to see him throwing his life away.

It wasn’t a life he wanted, he’d thought then. He thinks it now too sometimes.

Because just like _everyone else—_

“So?” he grinds out before he absolutely fucking loses it. Fists on his thighs, he breaks skin again.

“So, why did you go to Vienna instead? Why didn’t you come with me?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

_Tony, I know this is hard but she’d want you to be here._

But how could he? During everything.

_Because you were still thinking about him._

“The Accords could’ve waited,” she says gently. He thinks there’s pity in her voice. Pity he doesn’t deserve or want.

He forces himself to laugh sardonically, twisting in his chair to shoot her the most venomous glare he can muster. It doesn’t phase her—nothing ever does—but it fills him with a sick sort of glee to see her take one measly step back.“No, they couldn’t. You signed. You saw the deadlines. I pushed the team to sign. If I didn’t show it’d just be bad PR.”

“Tony.”

“FRIDAY, run another diagnostic on the shur—whatever the hell those are.”

 _“Sure thing, boss.”_ Even she sounds angry, pissed, and he knows it’s not at him. FRIDAY turned out to be more protective of him than even JARVIS and for once it feels nice having someone fight for him, someone who wasn’t in his debt or just using him.

“When have you ever cared about PR?” she asks. There’s hard incredulity in the words as she calls him out on his bullshit.

“Why do you care so much?” he bites. He has an idea.

Peggy had known Nat too. Not personally, but she’d known of her and he’d heard stories. About the red-haired ballerina with a million little secrets. Hell, she’s the only reason Nick had a clue where to find her. He’s got a suspicion that Nat didn’t go to London just to be Steve’s shoulder to cry on.

“This is about them.” Her voice is blank again, how he likes it. It makes it easier for him to hate her like this.

“Isn't it always? He made sure of that.” He spits it out like it’s poisonous because it is.

“He was protecting you, Tony.”

They’ve sang this song before—well he has, with himself and with Sharon. It always ends the same way too: him blaming himself.

“Don’t tell me you actually buy into that load of shit. He was protecting himself,” he deflects and he knows that it touches a nerve. He averts his eyes before she locks him down.

“What would you have done? If you’d known.” Oh, and _that’s_ an edge he hasn’t heard in a long time. Not since they’d last properly spoken: with Rhodey in surgery and his arm in a sling. The difference then was that she’d still been lying to him. She can’t do that anymore. Not when he can no longer trust a word that comes out of her mouth.

“Does it matter?” he snaps.

Her voice is sharp, the no-nonsense one that she’d turned on him when her name was Natalie and he was _dying. The first lie, definitely not the last._ “All it would’ve done was stir up old emotions, you know that—“

And all they’ve done is lie to him, when he gave them everything, gave them a home and clothes on their backs and a _family._ He took it all away all because the man that murdered his parents was his _best friend._

He explodes. The screwdriver flies across the room and her eyes flash with a warning he doesn’t quite process. He just _wishes_ she’d touch him, that he’d put her fucking hands on him so he _show them_ how _done_ he is. “I _don’t!_ I don’t _get_ to know that because he took that choice from me! He lectured _me_ on keeping secrets from the team—secrets that would keep us from trusting each other. Turns out he was the hypocrite all along, and it seems like I’m the only one who’s able to see that.”

_Anthony Edward Stark, I’m not going to watch you drink yourself to death._

_“Boss.”_

And then in the hospitals when she started forgetting things and it was _him_ there, not Steve.

_Howard. What a nice surprise._

“So tell me, the hell does it matter?” He can feel the tears now, the aching in his jaw while he holds them back. He used to be good at this. Now he’s not so sure.

_”Boss!”_

_“What?”_

FRIDAY seems to ignore the snap in his voice, skipping her usual condescending dismissal for something a bit more alarming: panic.  _“I’ve detected traces of organic residue.”_

“Alright.” He’d expected that. He composed himself, puts his walls back up and pulls himself together. “Okay. What are we—what are we dealing with?”

 _“It appears to be blood.”_ He leans over the keyboard, already typing away, trying his hardest to ignore Nat until she’s breathing his name. He turns to see her eyes wide, not with anger, but disbelief.

“...Who’s?”

He swears her voice shakes. And rightfully so. _“Asgardian.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to split this in two parts. Next half will be up in a couple days. 
> 
> SNEAK PEEK:
> 
> “You here to turn me in?” 
> 
> He starts to unwrap the tape on his hands when she shifts her weight. “Technically, you’re under SHIELD protection now.”
> 
> The taste finally seeps into his tongue. It smells like cork and sunlight and tastes like sautéing onions and ginger. “I thought SHIELD didn’t exist anymore,” he says after a stuttering moment. He wonders if he looks as dazed as the taste makes him feel. 
> 
> This time it’s her turn to look down and avoid his gaze. She picks at something on her fingernails. She’s never done that before either. “It didn’t. After Vienna, after everything… a friend contacted me. Told me they were working again.”
> 
> “Are you sure that's a good idea?”
> 
> She smiles and it’s basic training all over again. She’s that dud grenade and, God, he just might jump.


	7. /lines_2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you finally talked.”
> 
> Tim—no, Red Robin—turns a white glare over his shoulder, picking Natasha out of the darkness before any of them else. “So you finally listened.”

The hallways aren’t familiar anymore. They have all the same corners and dents and scuffs but they’re not friendly anymore. They glare at him with eyes he can’t see, the shadows lick his ankles until he’s trying not to sprint.

His feet lead him to his room before he realizes where they’re taking him.

He’d never used it much. Whenever he wasn’t on a mission he’d either been here or at the even emptier apartment he has stolen away in Brooklyn. Home had never been a location to him, more of a people. Or so he’d thought.

Everything is how he’d left it.

The sheets on his bed and pulled taught and straight, old habits from the army. The curtains are drawn tight and there’s still an empty glass on the nightstand next to a lone pencil. No, Steve doesn’t have many _things_. He supposed that he’s just so used to moving, to leaving some place and never coming back. Belongings weighed him down and sentiment was never something of a problem to him.

Not to say he doesn’t have a few memorabilia scattered around that makes this room, albeit bare, undeniably his.

It’s the desk, for one. Nothing but a lamp and an empty mason jar. But the actual table top is cluttered. There are paint chips and splatters, feathers of pencil lead and charcoal that still makes his fingers come away dark.

Behind the curtains, taped to the glass are the sketches. Not like the old ones, gray and gloomy with scratches and marks that looked angry. These are calm, happy. Colorful. There’s one of Stark Tower, like it used to be: piercing the skyline with an unmistakable outline of Howard’s legacy. There’s Thor, laughing so hard that he can almost hear it. A stylized warm-up with crumpled edges featuring Bruce and Hulk sitting across from each other at a diner. Hard-lined sketches of Clint’s face after a night and half a morning on the PlayStation, the softer brushes of Wanda’s and Vision’s hands while they cook. Natasha with a smirk, beating Sam at some game. _You sunk my battleship!_ is written in Sam’s handwriting, an empathetic speech bubble scrawled over Nat’s head with a frowny-face. The beginnings of a smile tugs on his lips, of easier days.

There’s one of him.

A full page almost hidden under the others, not mistakenly he presumes.

His eyes are bright, looking up into something off the paper. Oil tracks under his eye, stubble encroaches on his jawline and his hair is mussed with grease and sweat. It’s blue light that brushes the edges of his face, back when he still smiled so wide.

He can’t remember the last time he saw that smile.

He crumples the paper, leaves it on the floor with the rest of them. Nat’s room is across from his, then Sam’s next door with Wanda on the other side of Clint’s and Rhodey’s. He stalks past them all, dark with… something.

He means to go to the gym, to find something to punch his anger into but the place his feet carry him to is not the one they remember.

It’s another lab. A smaller one than the others with the rest of the space set up like some sort of testing environment.

The doors are open.

Tony is a mess, he knows that—everyone knows that. He leaves things in a whirlwind, a trashed kind of chaos that involves gutting every piece of machinery in view and making art out of it.

This lab isn’t like that.

It’s messy, yeah, but not chaotic. There are papers scattered everywhere, half of an equation scribbled only to be finished on another across the room. There’s a lot more beakers and burners than Tony’s usual setup, but a lot more robots than Bruce’s.

He picks one up, untangles it from a mess of wires and parts. He doesn’t know what the hell it’s supposed to be. There’s a camera in the middle, he thinks, some kind of processor in the center of half a dozen extensions. There’s a lot of them, he realizes.

There’s a textbook. A lot of textbooks. _An Introduction to Quantum Mechanics, Theoretical Mathematics and Chemistry, A Guide to Engineering Materials, Fundamentals of Mechanics…_ and a college pamphlet.

Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

_“Captain Rogers, you shouldn’t be in here.”_

“I—uh—“ he stammers. It isn’t FRIDAY, there’s no accent in her voice but there’s no body either, so she has to be an AI. He curses Tony for having so many.

“It’s okay, Karen.” Another voice intervenes, this one from the door. He turns on his heel before the lights finally cut on.

_“If you insist, Miss Carter.”_

He almost starts at the name, some form of stress leading him to believe—if just for a moment—that it might be a certain English-spitfire standing in the doorway.

“I do.”

In a way, he isn’t wrong.

Deja-vu hits him hard, almost as hard as the guilt in his stomach when he registers her apprehension. Her eyes flick between his face and the mess across the floor. He raises his eyebrows, face flushed, heart pounding. He hopes he looks composed. Her raised eyebrow says otherwise.

She leans on the door frame. She’s lost weight: he can see it in her face and her wrists. Her cheeks are almost _jaunt:_ hollow and gray. Her hair is pulled back like he’s never seen before and she just lets herself watch him, arms crossed. He realizes that she’s waiting for him to explain himself.

His face flushes again, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar (not that he’d ever had one). He sets the textbooks back down gingerly. “I was just—“

“He usually likes people in here, but he’s not your biggest fan.” She stalks inside, arms barred across her stomach like she’s protecting herself. She might be smiling—or trying not to—he can’t tell anymore. Her face, her voice, her lips... are a stranger’s.

His hand comes over the back of his neck. “I was looking for the gym. I didn’t mean to… trespass, I guess.” She just gazes at him. He doesn’t know what happened to her after Leipzig when she’d risked her career and reputation to get their gear out of Vienna. He hadn’t expected to, of course—she’s an intelligence officer and it’s well within her ability to drop off the map—but it hadn’t stopped him from asking Nat to put out feelers. She’s something of a ghost of his past now, slipping in and out of his nightmares so discreetly that some nights he doesn’t notice her.

Some nights she’s the one in the suit.

“Whose is this?” he asks with a dry mouth, stepping away from the table with a casual gait, waving his hand around loosely.

She gazes at him with the same blank expression. “Someone we try very hard to protect.”

He doesn’t know a damn thing about the kid. Just knows that he’s young, that he’s packs a punch and managed to knock both Bucky and Sam without much trouble (if he didn’t know any better, he’d say that they’re getting _old)._ He knows that he’s based in New York—a vigilante-type dubbed Spider-Man. He knows about the shady cover-up and attack on one of Stark’s aircraft coming out of Manhattan and the rumors that Spider-Man had been the cape in that situation.

He knows about the rumors. The ones that Stark had been preparing to introduce Spider-Man as the newest member of the Avengers after Siberia.

It had made his blood boil.

Firstly, for letting a _kid_ within their— _Tony’s—_ ranks.

Secondly, for doing it so soon after.

Logically, he knows that he has no right to be angry but he is.

_You got heart kid. Where you from?_

_Queens._

_Brooklyn._

“From me,” he nods, pulling himself out of his thoughts. Sharon blinks at him, still expressionless as strands of her hair spill over her face. He scoffs, “I didn’t know he stuck around.”

“He’s family,” she says instantly.

His anger bubbles up again no matter how hard he tries to swallow it. He looks at the equipment strewn around, at the evidence of its inhabitant. He’s sure that if he snoops around he’ll find an identity, the name behind the mask. He’s also sure that if he starts to look, that “Karen,” or maybe Sharon herself, won’t let him walk out unscathed. Regardless, it’s clear that the owner of the lab is on the younger side. There’s evidence of food, of homework and notebooks, socks on the floor and more than a couple knick-knacks and clutter that only proves him right.

MIT.

He shakes his head, slowly at first, until eventually he stops bothering to hide it. “He’s a kid, Sharon.”

“He’s a lot more than a kid.” Her voice snaps and for the first time, he _looks_ at her. “What are you doing here?” She asks, looking away. “You’ve turned a lot of heads coming back.”

He narrows his eyes at that. They haven’t been here long yet. He wonders just who Tony has told. Wonders if the next person to walk through the doors will be the Secretary of State himself. “You going to turn me in?”

She shifts her weight. “Technically, you’re under SHIELD protection now.” There’s a familiar tease in her voice, faint but present. The taste finally seeps into his tongue. It smells like cork and sunlight and tastes like sautéing onions and ginger.

“I thought SHIELD didn’t exist anymore,” he says after a stuttering moment, still wary. He wonders if he looks as dazed as the taste makes him feel.

She picks at something on her fingernails. She’s never done that before either. “It didn’t. After Vienna, after everything… a friend contacted me. Told me they were working again.”

He raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

He half expects her to lash out about asserting his authority—even subtly—like Tony had. Instead, she shrugs. “It’s either that, or let the General and the ATCU go unsupervised, and legally I’m not allowed to work for the government anymore.” Her sad smile grows a bit more hopeful and genuine and he can't help but hesitantly return it. “I trust the man in charge. And you do too.”

_You left her here too._ He wants to apologize. About costing her career and throwing her to the wolves. For asking her to risk her life and her reputation. For telling them where to find Bucky.

“You haven’t answered my question,” he smiles. It’s still easy to talk to her. After everything, she’s still _Sharon._

She looks down again, adjusting her grip on her arms. He’s closer now, close enough to touch her if he wanted. He gets the sense that she may break if he does. “Rhodey asked me to be here. For Tony.” The smile falls and she doesn’t look back at him. “He’s been having a hard time with the anniversary. And now all this.”

The anniversary? It had to be his parents death.

He says it delicately and feels like an asshole anyway. “It’s not even December yet.”

Her voice turns a bit harder, a bit more cork in the pan, a bit more cornmeal in his teeth. “I’m not talking about his parents,” she bites, turning to stalk out of the lab. She waits pointedly for him to follow with an unspoken order that _is_ familiar.

It only occurs to him then that this is a completely different Sharon than he remembers. For the most part, she looks the same. Same sense of style, same smile, same taste of afternoon dinners and hay. But some parts he doesn’t recognize. The nervous tics she’s developed in two short years, the defensive stance she won’t drop, and the far away look in her eyes.

He’s seen the thousand-yard-stare up close and personal. She didn’t have it last time.

The door closes behind them and he ignores the way it almost clips his heel, locking more sharply than he thinks is normal for StarkTech. But Sharon is leaning on the railing that overlooks the compound. It’s all open here and past some of the rooms, modules and labs, he can see the part of the hangar he’d entered with the rest of his team. It’s empty now, as quiet as they’d found it.

“Hey,” he says gently. She stills but he’s seen people when they suppress a flinch or a recoil and she’s a textbook example. Uneasiness tugs at his stomach while he slows his movements, stays an arms-length away. He leans his elbows on the rail, mimicking her. “How have you been?”

It takes her a while to answer but she knows that she hears because she wrings her hands, pulls her shoulders in tight. “Better. You?” comes the lie. She doesn’t seem too invested in his response but something tugs on his mind anyways.

_Wilson’s_ theory.

It catches on his mouth when he says it, but it comes out smoothly enough. “Do you know anything about ATCU involvement with Leo Pèrez?”

She blinks and then shifts her weight again. He knows she recognizes the name. As high-ranking as she’d been before SHIELD fell, she has to. She looks uncomfortable. “No. They aren’t authorized to operate internationally yet, it’s out of their jurisdiction until the UN inducts the program”

“What about off the books?” he says after a moment.

Her face stiffens and for a second she moves like she might come closer. “What happened?”

“Poison,” he admits, taking his time before her tentative glance draws it out. “Designed specifically to take down a super-soldier. Permanently.” Sharon looks away sharply and her body language changes from apprehensive to… cautious—one he’s seen Natasha fall into plenty of times, and it never signified anything good. He continues carefully. “Ross has made it very clear just how bad he wants my head.”

He lets the seed plant, let’s it take root in her head but he’s not ready for how sharply she stands, pushing off of the rail. He follows more clumsily before chilling at her words.

“You think he had something to do with it, don’t you.”

The blue in her eyes it piercing, even in the dark and he wonders… He wonders if she’s still on his side. If what she said on that podium in London still echoes in her head like it does in his. “I don’t want to. But he was working for Ross, and he knows my physiology,” he argues.

Her eyes flash, but not with anger he thinks. She’s never turned on him like this, not even when he’d found out she was SHIELD, or condemned her for it. He doesn’t know what this look—what this emotion—is. “Tony hasn’t worked on much of anything. The General’s got him under his thumb.”

And then he notices something else. Something a great deal more alarming.

“Why won’t you say his name?”

Their eyes lock—truly lock—for the first time and he can’t look away.

“What?” she says, but her voice is dry, claws her words back until they come out like a whisper.

“Ross. You keep avoiding it.” His eyes narrow. “What happened?”

He thinks about Ross. About his history with Banner, about the Raft.

“Sharon.”

She pulls away much more deliberately now. “You need to talk to him. To Tony. Wilson told me about the kid. Whatever he’s got to say, it’s not good news and you two need to be talking if it turns bad.”

He wants to reach out and pull her back. He wants her to talk to him. But every breath he takes counts for two of hers. Every move he makes only causes her to twitch towards her hip, eyes wide with…

“He won’t even look at me,” he says, hoping that changing the subject will bring her back. It doesn’t.

“Neither of you are the same person anymore. Stop treating each other like you are and maybe you’ll make some progress.” She hesitates like she might continue, might stay—might _something._ But she doesn’t.

 

He doesn’t go talk to Tony, not unless he wants to walk away with bloody knuckles and an even worse guilt in his stomach than before. Who he does try to find is Vision. His search turns up empty but somewhere he hears Sam’s laugh.

Coming back was a mistake—for whatever reason. They should’ve stayed in Wakanda, figured out what happened to Wanda from there, forced Red Robin to communicate… somehow. No matter what happened in Manhattan, to the tower, to the _Avengers,_ that’s their problem now. Theirs, and the Accord’s, and Spider-Man’s, and Sharon’s. Maybe the split had been for the better. Tony obviously has his own way of running things, and everything on his side of the globe had been fine until—

They’d never had to use the containment cells for anyone other than a few rogue HYDRA agents, strays or targets that they’d haul back to base after missions—there weren’t many anyways and if anything, it acted as a midway point until the proper authorities could be contacted. But who do you contact to deal with… this?

He gets in without a problem which only convinces him that Tony isn’t babysitting the security feeds right now—or maybe he is, he’s just waiting for Steve to walk into one, have him wrapped up with a bow when Ross gets here—which apparently would be first thing in the morning for his debriefing on the mess in the city. He almost wishes the Secretary would show up right now, just so he could tear him a new one, ask him face-to-face about his part in all of this. If he didn’t have Tony as his lap dog, maybe—

He actually stops walking and closes his eyes.

“Get it together, Rogers,” he mutters to himself. It doesn’t quell the anger but it does clear his head.

The sublevels require a different clearance than a standard employee’s, one that had been granted to every founding member when the compound had been built. He’d never used it before but he remembers the credentials, punching them into the keypad by the door.

It’s the first stroke of luck in the past couple days when it actually opens, blinking green underneath his handprint.

_Authorized: Captain America._

So, Tony hadn’t changed anything.

_He’s the only one with your blood work. With your medical records._

The cells are small but not uncomfortable—or at least they don’t look it. Most of them are empty and there are no guards posted, dark and yawning. The one on his right has the lights on, a lone figure standing in the center.

He looks up when he turns the corner, not looking surprised or put off in any way, just… expectant. “Red Robin?” His voice echoes down the hall, bouncing off the glass back to him. He remembers that the cells are soundproofed and reaches out to the locking mechanism. He’s only ninety percent sure that the kid won’t rush him when the door opens and he’s somewhat wary when he turns out to be right.

He regards him coolly, arms crossed. There’s a bruise blossoming under his eye, small cuts on his palms that he didn’t have before. “Captain.”

His voice is as even as it was before, no cracking, no exhaustion, just… a voice.

He chances a small smile that isn’t returned. “Hey, are you okay?”

Red shrugs, gauges him for a moment before scanning the perimeter of the bare, white room with a dismissive frown. “I’m fine. This isn’t the worst cell I’ve been in.”

He thinks about the Raft. About how the kid would survive there. How Wanda did.

“Really?” It comes out drier than intended but he doesn’t seem to notice, returning a noncommittal “Mm.” His profile is jagged and sharp and there’s a crook in his nose from a past break. Everything about him screams experience, the jaded past of a tired warrior. It’s in his eyes, the way he’s carrying himself. A look that no child should carry. “If it isn’t too much trouble,” he says, chest rising when he sighs pointedly, “I’d like my mask back.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You need it?” He doesn’t answer. He supposes it’s because of his identity. Wherever he comes from, he hides it—for what purpose he doesn’t know. He’s never had the luxury himself, of separating Steve Rogers and Captain America with the cowl. They’ve always been one-and-the-same in the eyes of the public, which used to be okay with him. None of the Avengers hid their identities. It had probably occurred to Fury once or twice but everyone knew Captain America was Steve Rogers. Everyone knows Iron Man is Tony Stark. They’d never had the option to hide.

“How old are you?”

Red Robin blinks at him and there’s such a long pause before he answers that Steve thinks he’s just been ignored. But he looks at his toes for a moment, bringing icy eyes back to his. “Eighteen. Not as much of a kid as you may think,” he tacks on, not unkindly but not kindly either.

So, not much older than Wanda when she’d been recruited unofficially. It still tastes sour in his mouth. This kid has been fighting a lot longer against a lot more than Wanda had been before Strucker found her and Pietro.

Red seems to sense his apprehension now, watching him carefully. “Look, Captain. I understand the caution around me, but they need to trust me as soon as possible. Whatever is coming is bigger than anything I’ve seen—and that’s saying something. If we want a fighting chance, I need to contact my people.”

_His people._ The Bat. Someone he trusts, looks up to. His mentor, maybe? “Where are they?” he asks.

He looks apprehensive for a moment but reluctantly replies. “If I’m right, a parallel universe—not as crazy as it sounds, trust me. But I need to talk to someone who might be able to help me.”

His initial reaction is to scoff and he manages to snatch it back into his throat after half of it’s left. Red glares and Steve looks away, face burning. Is he really buying this? This—parallel universe shit?

No. Or he wouldn’t be if the kid didn’t look so damn _serious_ about it.

He can’t remember if Schmidt had ranted about something of the like, or if it had been studied by SHIELD when they’d had the Tesseract.

He composes himself when the doubt starts seeding, when Red’s glare loses its patience. He clears his throat awkwardly. “What do you need?”

The kid shoots him a pointed look. “I need to talk to him.”

_Right._ “We’re working on it.” He drags his hand down his face and the kid just watches him. Part of him is embarrassed. Another part of him knows that he too young to understand anyway. “We aren’t really on civil terms right now.”

Red scoffs, looking away slightly, just enough to keep him in his peripherals. “Who is these days?”

Without all his gear, he really is smaller. Sort of like how Steve had been before the serum, but there’s a lot more muscle than he’d had. He isn’t tall either, unable to clear even his shoulders when he stands next to him.

Who would send a kid to them like this? Why?

“You really don’t remember how you got here, do you?” he says, still watching him.

The kid shifts but not with discomfort. He rubs at his wrists absently. “Breaching tends to be… disorienting. But I’m where I need to be.”

Steve watches him breathe evenly, gazing out through the glass. The kid needs a shower, maybe medical attention. “You know what’s coming,” he says lowly.

He nods. “I need to talk to him.”

Steve scoffs, crossing his arms. He makes sure to move slowly and deliberately when he walks to lean back against the wall. “Yeah, well. Good luck with that.”

Red regards him with an unreadable look. “He’ll know.”

And he knows Tony. Knows that he trusts people as far as he can throw them and doesn’t give a damn who gets caught in the crossfire.

He tilts his head when the kid raises a sleek, dark eyebrow. “You said parallel universe. Breaches. What did you mean?”

He sniffs, wipes his nose on the back of his hand. There’s a long moment of silence before he too stalks over the far wall, slides down until he’s sitting on the floor with his elbows propped up on his knees. “The crash course boils down to vibration.” His hands move when he talks, open palms. He’s used to public speaking, used to explaining things in a comprehensible manner. His nose scrunches and Steve is again thrown at how _young_ he looks. “Multiverse theory explains it like bubbles. Each universe is contained inside itself, existing in proximity among others. Each of them vibrate at their own frequencies that can be tapped into several different ways.” His eyes lock onto Steve’s and he can’t look away. “Before this, we only knew of fifty-two. This world—your world—is the fifty-third.”

Fifty-three universes. Fifty-three universes just like his, but different.

He wipes his mouth with a thumb. “The threat—this thing you’re warning us about—“

“Has the potential to wipe out each one.”

The sound of the door opening is loud after the silence. Both of them are on their feet in the same instant.

Steve doesn’t miss the tactical prowess of Red’s movements, the coiled strength in his muscles and the unbridled focus in his blue eyes.

They meet furious brown ones. And a whole lot of firepower.

He doesn’t know where the hell they came from, just knows that he’s at the dangerous end of the barrel they’re all aimed right at his chest. If he moves fast enough, he can duck under, knock one with a punch, another with a well-placed kick and take out the next two.

Tony’s always been able to see right through him, to predict what he’s about to do before he does it. Whether it was on the battlefield, on camera, or in their fucking living room—Tony always _knew._

“Don’t even fucking think about it.”

It’s what made him such a good co-lead.

He doesn’t know where the hell they came from but he’s got more than a sneaking suspicion. Dread and shock plummets his stomach into ice water. He should’ve known better than to push Stark when all he had to do is call for Ross and ATCU troops. He should’ve known.

“Tony—“ he’s saying already, trying to put himself in front of Robin. The soldiers track him and the hair rises on his neck.

Tony’s eyes flash with anger, with panic. He hasn’t got the suit on but he doesn’t doubt that it’s stored somewhere discreet on his person. He growls, “Stop talking to him. Get him out of here.” His head jerks towards Steve and the soldiers start moving. They’re in full tac-armor: vests, helmets, the whole nine yards, and the hands they reach for him with aren’t friendly.

“What the hell are you doing, Stark?” he hisses, dodging one outstretched palm but not the second that matches around his wrist. He stops himself from throwing the soldier into the far wall. He catches sight of their vests, their shoulders. There’s no ATCU patches, no military insignia.

These are _Tony’s._

He’ll have time to mull over the possibilities and excuses Tony could have for employing private military, but for now the billionaire jerks his chin at the wiry frame behind him, situated out of reach of him, Steve, and the other soldiers. “You’d better explain yourself, kid. Fast.”

Steve grits his teeth. “Tony—he’s not the enemy.”

Red Robin steps out of his shadow, chin tilted down, completely docile in all but his gaze that carries a heavy warning. He prays that Tony can read it because while the kid may not be able to beat both him _and_ Iron Man so soon after their last brawl, it’s well within his skill set to outright kill his gun-toting posse if they happened to get trigger-happy. “Listen to him, Mr. Stark,” he warns lowly.

Instantly, the guns are on _him_ and he freezes. “I wouldn’t move if I were you,” Tony smiles remorselessly. It looks more like a grimace.

He holds his hand out, an open palm and slowly puts his arm in front of the kid until Tony’s eyes snap back up. “Back off, Stark. Tell your men to stand down.”

His eyes narrow. Whatever he’d found out, whatever revelation he’d come across, it scared the shit out of him. Every bone in his body tells him to reach out and hold him. Every bone is also telling him that it’s a good way to get turned into Swiss cheese. Tony snarls. “This is an Avengers facility. You have no authority here, Rogers.”

Some of the soldiers readjust their grip and he shakes his head. “You’re not gonna lay a hand on this kid.”

“Get out of my way.”

His jaw sets. “Or what? You gonna hurt me like you hurt Sharon?”

There’s heat on his face, heat from Tony’s lungs, from his nose. It blasts his face when the hero glares up at him with a look capable of melting the ice caps. “You watch your mouth, Rogers,” he says and it’s so low in his throat that something at the base of his spine shivers violently.

There’s something in his hand and it takes everything in him to suppress the reflex to grab him when he leans around, addresses Red anyways with a sleek blade between his fingertips. “You. You wanna tell me what this is?”

He chances a turn. Red’s eyes are just as dark, the ice caps that Tony aims to obliterate. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

“Sharpened titanium alloy, carbon fiber reinforced polymer armor plates, military-grade grappling equipment, improvised bolas and smoke grenades. Your prints don’t come up in any criminal database, your face doesn’t exist. Highly skilled martial arts combatant consisting of ninjutsu, aikido, kendo, kali, capoeira, karate, taekwondo—and those are just the ones we can identify.” Tony lists them all fervently, stalking around but never within reach of the kid. “An 18-year-old unidentified Caucasian-Japanese male, with the training, reflexes, and resources of a seasoned Marine is what we’re dealing with.”

“Tony. That’s enough.” It’s the Captain Voice.

He gets the glare all over again but this time, the blade is in his own face. “This,” he snaps quietly, shaking the dark weapon. “It’s covered in Asgardian blood, Rogers. _Loki’s.”_

Steve’s blood chills and he looks over his shoulder.

It answers a lot. Not logically, and not satisfactorily, but it answers all the same. An answer that means Tony was right, that Red Robin really is right where he belongs.

He sees their narrowing eyes, that change in Steve’s posture from protective to hostile. He shakes his head in irritation. “Listen—I don’t know who that is. We’re on the same team.”

“Who the hell are you?” Tony snarls. Steve wants to stop him, hold him back. He doesn’t.

The kid’s mouth opens. Then shuts. Then does it again. For the first time, his emotions read like a bedtime story, so blatantly obvious and pure that they roll into one rising pink flush on his cheeks. He blinks, takes an angry, resigned breath, then meets Tony’s unwavering glare. “My name is Tim Drake.”

“FRI—“

He shakes his head, not breaking their stare and managing to look disappointed, tired, and _very_ pissed off. “You’re not going to find me on any database, news, media, website, or anything.” He moves jerkily, hand flying to his wrist so sharply that both he and Tony start. His fingers dig underneath his cuff and he drags his sleeve up. Steve has seen scars before. He’s seen Nat’s, Clint’s. He’s seen Stark without a shirt, and even Sam has more than a few memorable ones, but _this._ Bruises up and down, skin so pale his veins are so blatantly green. Pockmarks from IV drips, injections sites and wrists scarred from handcuffs too tight. But he doesn’t want their pity, he wants their _help._ “Take my blood—fingerprints. Run them. VICAP, CODIS, IDENT, AFIS—hell—ICD. It won’t matter, I don’t _exist_ here,” he snaps. Then he stops.

“You’re assuming I haven’t already,” Tony says with no small amount of venom.

He waits. Then he raises an eyebrow, “If you had, you wouldn’t be in here right now.”

They communicate something he doesn’t understand until Stark snaps over his shoulder to his guards. “Get out.”

“Mr. Stark, I’m not your enemy,” he says when they’ve begrudgingly filed out. His voice is tight with an urgence too demanding to be begging, but pleading nonetheless.

“I’m a cape from Gotham: a city not far from Detroit. A few weeks ago someone I trust approached me about something coming. Something determined to erase all life, across every universe—this one and mine. Listen, I’ve seen evil, I’ve seen world-eaters but this is so much worse.” He looks away for a moment, turning to pace in a small circle while he takes a hand through his hair with his eyes screwed shut. Tony looks about the opposite: eyes wide with disbelief. “The trail led me to you so I know you know what I’m talking about.”

“What are you talking about?” he breathes, almost inaudible.

Red Robin— _Tim—_ nearly barks now, without patience or sympathy. “I’m talking about the multiverse. Somehow, our two universes became connected through some force. Like magnets. I was running a mission in East Africa. I don’t _know_ what happened, you just have to trust me on that.” He softens back, “All I know is that I’m exactly where I need to be, and I need your help.”

It’s a very long moment before Tony seems to blink, petrified and it’s Steve that asks with a dry mouth. “For what?”

His mouth opens but nothing comes out. Instead, their eyes follow the tear that slips soundlessly from his eye, racing down his chin to cascade to the floor. He swears he hears it shatter on the tile, hears waves crashing when it breaks. Red’s eyes follow it too, and when he looks back up, there are more spilling from his clear blue eyes. “What—“ he breathes, fingers brushing his cheeks.

It’s concern that drives his feet forward to hover around the kid’s elbows when he pulls his hands back wet. “Why am I crying?” he asks.

Tony comes up beside his shoulder eyes wide. “What the hell—“

For what seems to be the millionth time tonight, an AI sounds from the ceiling, stopping any previous train of thought dead in its tracks. _“Boss, Miss Potts is calling.”_

Tim pulls away sharply, turning from them. Tony chews on his lips and for a second, his eyes flick to Steve’s. “I’m busy.”

The AI insists stubbornly until he can see the words seeping into Tony’s head, feels their meaning seep into his own. _“Maria Hill reported Secretary Thaddeus Ross’s presence at the Stark Industries Charity Gala approximately ten minutes ago.”_

His stomach doesn’t just chill, it completely drops out.

It dawns on him too, just before he moves for the door and the look on his face is enough to make him reach out. His hand grips his shoulder and the fact that he doesn’t flinch away says more than either of them ever could. Instead, Tony’s hand grips the inside of his wrist. He wheezes, “He knows you’re here. FRIDAY—“

“Who told him?” Steve demands, ducking his head between them.

Tony hisses, panic flooding off of him in waves, panic he’s never seen before. His own nerves short out like wet wires. “I don’t know.”

“Tony—“

“I don’t know!” He wrenches free. “FRIDAY, send Carter to her location _now._ Get her off the road. No one leaves that building until she’s safe.”

Red’s eyes widen at the ceiling and then flick uncertainly between his and Stark’s, wet but not swollen. “What’s going on?”

_“Yes, boss.”_

He reaches out for Tony’s hand again. _“Stark—“_

Tony whirls on him, eyes a fiery whirlwind of fear and rage. The revelation he drops on him makes the rest of it make sense. “She’s pregnant.”

His brain shorts and it’s almost too much to blink, choking out a weak excuse of a response. “What?”

Tony grasps at his hair, other hand running over his chest frantically. _He’s looking for his arc reactor._ “He can’t get to her, Steve. He can’t—“

What _happened_ to them?

It’s a long moment before Steve can breathe _himself._ It’s a rollercoaster of emotions that leads him to one place: guilt. Not guilt for not knowing, or guilt for putting Stark in this situation—or even guilt for anything he’s _done._ It’s guilt for what he feels.

There are a lot of images that fly across his mind. Of a future he’d wished he’d had at one point. There’s sun there, a cookie-cutter house with a white picket fence and a playground in the backyard. There’s a kid there and there’s love there and _Tony’s_ there.

There is no Pepper there.

He really thinks he might throw up because the rosemary isn’t just in his throat it’s in his nose—in his _fucking head—_

_Not now._

Three seconds. Three seconds for the adrenaline to set in, for his mind to clear. Three seconds to become the Captain.

He holds Tony’s shoulders until he looks at him. It still isn’t without fear—fear of _him—_ but it’s enough. “It’s okay, it’s okay. She’s going to be fine.” Tony’s never acted like this before. He took things in stride, he carried nukes into space and walked away from it with a smile, went into a cave of terrorists and came out a hero—Tony Stark doesn’t _panic._ But he is now. So he takes a page out of Stark’s book, and he take it in stride. He keeps his breathing even until Tony matches it despite himself, chest heaving. “Tony, we have to get him out of here.”

“Get off me,” he grunts. Steve will dwell later on how much the dismissal stings, reignites the anger in his belly, but for now, he obliges, lets his hand slide down Tony shoulder before it’s by his side again. “Him?” he echoes then, nodding to Tim.

“Ross is on his way here and if he can’t get me he’ll want the next best thing. We need to find out his connection to Wanda and why he’s got Loki’s blood on him.” Tony looks at him, confused, but a lot more lucid. His nails dig into his fists and Steve mimics the movement without realizing it. He has to get upstairs, warn the team. He can’t let Sam go back. “But he’s just a kid, Stark.”

Tony blinks and takes a breath, nods. He pulls away, composing himself for a moment before moving to the door. He turns, pacing back with initiative in his stride, points a finger in Tim’s direction. “He’s going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Then think of something,” Steve grinds out. Too long, too slow. Just like Lyon.

He feels Tony’s gaze rake over him before he’s shoving the door open and shouting to his security. “You. Get me a sweatshirt or something. You, contact the Director and lock down the compound. I want a distraction. Tell him to send Johnson.”

The Director?

“Fury?” His eyes narrow. “You know about SHIELD?”

Tony avoids his gaze when he turns back into the room, foot propping the door open. There’s a black sweatshirt in his arms and he catches the ATCU branding when it’s tossed through the air.

Red catches it in one hand, wordlessly pulling it over his head.

“Not the time, Rogers. Is that bulletproof?” he deflects, turning back into the hall. He comes back with a vest, stalks back in the room to put it on the kid himself. He points to Steve while he talks. “Put this on, kid. You stay on his ass. Do not pass go, do not collect, got it?”

Tim grabs his wrist before he’s out of reach. Even as small as he is and weighed down by a sweatshirt too big, Kevlar too heavy, he manages to look menacing looking up into Tony’s eyes. “I need my gear.”

He shakes his head. “Sorry, kid—“

“Stark.” Much quieter, much stricter. “I need my gear.”

He sees his eyes flash with defiance but it’s gone as fast as it appears. “Fine.” He takes the kid’s arm in hand and then they’re on his heels into the hallway. Immediately, the guards flank them. They aren’t oppressive anymore. Instead, they’re protecting _him._ Tony says something under his breath to the lead and they peel off at his order, running down a hall he doesn’t remember.

“Who’s Ross?” Tim demands.

Tony releases his arm, pushing the kid ahead of him instead, a hand on his shoulder. Red looks repulsed by the touch but he doesn’t say a word. Tony looks down at his watch before stabbing his hand into the bio-reader of the elevator. “Oh, just someone who doesn’t like the Captain very much.” He thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Or me.”

Tim has such an odd look on his face when they pack into the elevator that Steve has to scoff. “We don’t all have to like our bosses, kid.”

Tony actually laughs and for a moment, the taste of rosemary floods all the way up to his brain.

“Trust me,” the kid says dryly. “I know.”

FRIDAY moves them up to the ground floor at records speed, the sudden acceleration threatening to make even Steve’s head spin. In the back of his mind, he wonders if it’s a good time to ask for the shield back.

Tony flips his watch over his hand and Steve watches when it folds over his skin into a familiar red and gold design. He guides Tim out with his other hand when the doors open into the compound, between what used to be the gym and the hangar. Tony’s lab.

“Talk to us, Vis.” Steve says, trusting that FRIDAY will forgive him enough to link up their comm units.

Even dark, it feels the same. A mechanic’s paradise. There are machine parts scattered on every surface, tables and wires crossing the floor at random intervals, sometimes taped down, sometimes too taut to even touch the ground. The monitor washes everything in a familiar blue light and Tony jogs to the console. He jerks a thumb to the desk to his side, littered with all of Red Robin’s gear they'd stashed away for examination. The kid doesn’t waste a moment in peeling off the bulletproof vest and hoodie.

The voice filters through the computer. _“All security measures are online. The outer perimeter is undisturbed. Agent Fisher wishes to inform you that the grounds appear to be clear.”_

Tim lets the vest fall to the ground. “Keep that on—“ Steve starts, but he’s cut off by a sharp glare.

“I have my own, Captain.”

“Alright. Get back here. Tell Fish that I want him to rendezvous with Sharon. The Director knows I’m coming and I don’t want Ross getting his hands on an agent.”

So they hadn’t been personal security. They’d been _SHIELD._

“Red, Rhodey will meet you on the tarmac and take you to a safehouse,” Tony says without looking up from the screen. “Don’t talk to anyone until I get there, understand?”

Steve notices that the building is running on emergency power when the strip lighting along the floor lights up underneath Sam’s feet when he jogs towards them along the catwalk-like walkway on the other side of the glass, Clint and Rhodes on his heels. He shouts at FRIDAY to let them in and after a minuscule nod from Stark, she does. “Tony, what’s going on?” he demands, hostility clear in his voice. He doesn’t try to hide the once-over he gives Steve and Tim, and Rhodes doesn’t bother to hide the hand he slips over his shoulder to move past.

“What’s he doing out?” Rhodey asks, pointing at Tim.

The kid clips his belt over his shoulders where they cross over his chest. The cape already slips over his shoulders while he adjusts his gauntlets. The technology responds like StarkTech, he notices, moving and adapting his his movements when he flexes until it settles on a shape flush against his muscle. There are shuriken in his fingers— _bats_ , he knows now—harmless when he fits them inside a hidden slot inside his gauntlet. “My job,” he snipes curtly and a smirk rises on Stark’s lips.

He turns with a flair only a Stark can brandish, half a smirk on his lips—but a smirk nonetheless. “Tim Drake, guys. Guys, Tim Drake.”

“So he finally broke.” Natasha’s voice is the only part of her that doesn’t melt into the shadows. Until Tim turns his head over his shoulder, Steve doesn’t even know where she is.

Her eyes glint silvery-blue in the lowlight.

Tim turns back to the rest of them dismissively, pulling his hood over his head. “So you finally _listened.”_

The black makes him even harder to see, harder to track. The kid was raised in the shadows. He’s seen Natasha work, seen her use darkness to her advantage—but this kid, he almost _controls it._

It’s a lot less easy to underestimate his willowy figure now that he’s seen so much of what he can do.

“First things first, kid,” Tony says, the smile dropping now. “Change of plans. Ross is coming for you. You all need to leave,”

Barton’s eyes narrow in concern. Steve sees the bow slung over his shoulder again. He straightens. “Whoa, he is not going to play nice, Tony. If he knows we’re here, he’ll take you.”

Sam’s eyes narrow with something else. “What’s with the change of heart?”

“Sam,” he warns. The two pairs of eyes that meet his are equal in shock, but one burns a bit more. Tony looks away quickly but Sam lingers, shock hiding a much more bitter hint of confusion. Betrayal.

He can deal with it later. “This isn’t up for debate. We’ve got to get Red Robin safe.”

Tony’s eyes harden. “If it makes you feel worse: I’m not giving you a choice.”

Rhodey’s voice is much softer after all the growling and quips. He touches Tony’s shoulder with an ease he and Steve used to share. The Accords robbed them of that too. “Tones, is Pepper okay?” he asks lowly, very, very carefully.

He nods, slowly, grips Rhodey back. “I sent Sharon with her.”

“Stark,” Clint interrupts. He slides his bow off his shoulder, gazing at his feet before he looks up. “I’m not leaving you.”

Tony turns back to the keyboard. “Let Ross take me. You guys can find Wanda and find out what the hell else Red knows. I can handle it.”

“Hell no,” Rhodes says sharply at the same time that Clint scowls darkly, “No offense, but that’s a dangerous bet.”

“You don’t have a say, Katniss,” Tony snaps over his shoulder. There’s no venom in it this time though.

“Stark—“ Natasha tries but the words bubble up in Steve’s throat and he means them.

“No one is splitting us up again.”

For the first time, in a very, _very_ long time Steve doesn’t second guess himself and he sees Natasha smile.

Clint frowns, but not because of him. His eyes pan behind them, out to the glass that overlooks the rest of the hangar. _I trust your instincts._ “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?”

But none of them could possibly miss the shape of Vision getting close over the landing pad. None of them could miss the way the glass shatters and they keep on coming.

_“Get down!”_

None of them could miss the way they crash into Tony’s lab, and straight through Tim Drake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting into the meat of things. From this point on I’m actually going to be fiddling around with Plot Things(TM) so updates might take a little longer. On top of that I will be going back to school in a couple of weeks and this will have to be placed on the back burner :( 
> 
> Some things about Steve in this series before we go on any further: I do headcanon Steve to have synesthesia—specifically lexical-gustatory synesthesia. In Steve’s case, different sounds/words/voices may have a certain taste; for example the recurring theme of rosemary across his interactions with certain people. Steve’s synesthesia works very closely with his emotional state as well. Concerning his relationship with Tony, this story features a lot of upset-pining Steve (romance-wise). There is a lot of one-sided Stony from his POV, along with one-sided Stucky, just to clear things up. I will update the tags accordingly. 
> 
> Next chapter might be split up into two parts. It’s a big one featuring my favorite Gotham vigilantes. 
> 
> SNEAK PEEK: 
> 
> “Do you have any clue what you risked tonight, Jason?” he hisses, not bothering to smother his anger. 
> 
> The vigilante shoots him a glare so venomous and sober that he has to take another step back when he stands. Even soaking wet, Jason manages to make those two inches seem like a mile. “Well, I’m still breathing, so obviously not enough.”


	8. /rain_1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason smells like blood and hard liquor—neither of which are a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve hit some hard writer’s block halfway through this chapter so enjoy the first 10k early :)

It’s raining when they pull up to the old motel by the pier. Dick flashes the clerk a hundred and gets waved through with a key card and an appreciative grunt. Duke only speaks after Dick’s gotten out of the car and turned to pull Jason’s nearly unresponsive body out into the rain. They’re all soaked to the bone by the time they reach the overhang and the first floor of rooms. Jason’s body leans heavily on his shoulder, barred on the other side by Duke, who leans away from the smell of liquor. “Do you need any help?” he shouts over the rain while Dick fumbles with the room key.

He tries not to be curt, tries not to make things harder on the kid but he’s tired, cold, and pissed beyond all reason. “No, Duke. Thank you,” he ends up clipping, only tagging on his less-than-genuine-sounding thanks after Duke’s mildly affronted silence.

He finally gets the damn door open, reader blinking green for him to stick his foot in. They manage to maneuver Jason inside the room without hitting his head too hard on anything. He makes it onto one of the beds on his own, stumbling at least halfway before collapsing more-or-less on the floor. Anger burns bright in his chest.

Duke notices. He’s sniffing, Dick realizes, and his eyes are red-rimmed. When had that happened? “Don’t worry about it.” He turns his head and crosses his arms. His former apprentice sniffs again as they both regard Jason’s drunk shape in tense silence. In a surge of intense annoyance, Dick hopes viciously that Duke will take the hint and leave the two Bats alone, drive back to whatever he was doing before, but it’s not enough. “Is he going to be alright? I’m sure I can—“

“He’ll be _fine._ ”

Duke’s mouth shuts abruptly and there’s a quivering in his lip that Dick isn’t sure he imagined. “Ok.” Guilt rises in his throat, hot and bitter. “I’ll see you.”

“Duke—” It’s the soft close of the door and the absence of rainfall that cuts him off. Moments later he hears the familiar gear change of the Camaro he’d gotten the kid for his eighteenth birthday. Another second later and the growl of car is lost. _“Fuck.”_

Jason groans, pawing at his head with a weak scowl, intelligently enough for Dick to know that he’s conscious. Sometime since he’d last seen him, he’d pulled off the sling of bandages that had taped his arm across his chest. Now he’s just soaked, hands, bloody and bruised. He turns over his shoulder just to check if Dick’s still there and cracks a scornful smirk. “Thought he’d never leave,” he groans. His bones seems to screech in protest when he pushes himself up to sit properly at the foot of the bed. He shakes his hair out, effectively splashing everything in the room.

If he’d meant it as an aggravator, then Dick is more than happy to indulge.

“You’re fucking pathetic, you know that?”

He has the _nerve_ to laugh. “Fuck off.”

Liquid anger pours into his veins, drives his hands into fists. He can’t stop himself before they’re buried so far in Jay’s collar that he’s being lifted off the bed. He’s got the advantage from this position, looking down at the criminal, his only escape to fall further back onto the bed. “Do you have any idea what you just did?”

His faces twists about a million ways before he seems to be able to formulate an intelligent response. His eyes flash bright green when he finally does with a grin: “Suck my dick, Grayson.”

The bark of laughter cuts off in time with the blossom of pain in his knuckles. Jason crumples forward enough that Dick has to readjust his grip before the younger man is shoving him back. _“Jesus Christ—_ what the _hell_ is your fucking problem, dude?!” A new cut on his already bruised cheeks contrasts eerily with the green of his eyes. They flash when he touches the wound lightly, pulling his hand back to see the same smear of red as the one on the back of Dick’s hand.

The snarl is feral and more than a couple warning bells go off.

Warning bells that say “get out,” and “danger.” Warning bells he stubbornly disobeys.

He lets his anger come forward unobstructed. It pours like thin, runny lava, all over Jason’s molten eyes. “You’re my problem! You’re always my fucking problem! I have better things to do than babysit you because you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”  Jason’s gaze drops but he can still feel the green heat while he glowers, fists balled while he stands back. “Do you have _any_ clue what you risked tonight, Jason?” he hisses, not bothering to smother his anger.

The vigilante shoots him a glare so venomous and sober that he has to take another step back when he stands. Even soaking wet, Jason manages to make those two inches seem like a mile. “Well, I’m still breathing, so obviously not enough.”

He shoves past, still far gone on the intoxication spectrum, but well within the capacity to stumble over to the kitchenette without face-planting.

The last time Dick had been this angry, Jay had been dead and it had been Bruce at the end of his rage. For inducting another child into his life, for allowing himself to lose Jason so brutally—to the Joker, no less.

The rawness of his untimely death is still tender: the pain of having him come back into their lives so brutally and suddenly, with blood on his hands, finger on the trigger. He doesn’t remember fury being this hot in his veins or this cold on his tongue but regardless of how it feels, there’s no regret.

It’s no secret that Jason is a wild card—hell, it’s his most defining feature. You think he’ll go left and he goes right, you pretend to think he goes right and he does. But never in his life has Dick questioned his loyalty. Even at his lowest, deep within the pull of the pit, he’d never turned his back on the family—not completely anyway. He’d try to kill them a million times, but he’d never uproot their lifestyle, never tell anyone what they did when the sun went down and the bad guys came out.

He can’t remember what rule it had been, but _none_ of them had ever even thought about breaking it.

Until tonight.

“You gave them your name!” he seethes, turning on his heel to face Jason head on.

His head doesn’t lift from behind his shoulders as he leans on the counter. “So what?”

He’s past thinking about the words pouring out of his mouth, past caring about the consequences of saying something that will truly tip Jason over the edge. There isn’t a single fuck left to give and it feels absolutely _horrible._ “You’re dead, Jason!” he snarls. “You’re dead! What if those cops had put your name into the system, huh? If one of them recognized you—if Jim had?” Jason doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, just waits for Dick to finish. He spits out his next words and hope they _burn._ “You risked _everything._ Do you even realize that?”

Jason turns just enough for Dick to trace his wet eyelashes. “You’re not gonna ask how I got there?” he asks plainly.

“A bar fight,” Dick hisses. “I got that much.”

He shakes his head fervently. “No—no, _before_ that. What I did.”

His blood boils, temper spilling over what he can handle. He throws the key card on the dresser and makes a move for the door. “I’m not going to play this fucking game with you. I’m going home. If you wanna show up to pay your respects, you know how to get in.”

The door is almost closed behind him when Jason answers. “I already did.”

His gut tells him to leave and not look back, but he does. “What?” he bites.

Jay looks up with dead eyes and an undertaker’s smile. “Paid my respects. I did.” His head tips and he squints with a wicked grin.  “Ask me what I did, Dick. Ask me.”

He slams the door closed, stalks up to Jason until their nose-to-nose. If Jason wants to play, he’ll fucking play. “What did you do?” What could he have done?

He just smiles, licks his lips.

“No. No, you didn’t—Jason, you—you fucking _didn’t—“_

“No one's gonna fucking miss him.”

His smile is wolf-like until Dick surges forward. Jason would always be the strongest between the two of them, but like this—wounded and barely breathing—Dick can kick him around all he wants and that’s exactly what he plans to do. He grabs him by the neck, right under his jaw and shoves him back over the counter. “Who was it?” he growls. _“Who did you kill, Jason?”_

He leans forward past Dick’s elbow and vomits. Instantly, Dick steps back, releasing him and covering his nose in disgust. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls, trying to push him away, but Jason just rocks forward and heaves again, reaching out for the counter.

His hand leaves a a bloody print—and not a faint one either. His arm drops to the side and Dick can _see_ the blood streaming past his fingertips, steady rivulets of scarlet. Dick reaches for his hand, the one on his bad arm and nearly shouts at the heat radiating from his body. “You’re bleeding. Why are you bleeding?” Jason bats him away but he misses by a mile. When Dick’s fingers brush the fabric of Jay’s shirt, they too come away red and dripping. Jay’s hand is insistent now, trying to push him away but all Dick has to do is knock his arm upwards and pull. A tortured scream rips out of his throat and he kicks away so violently that he crashes into the mirror and onto the floor. It cracks when he falls too heavily for Dick to catch him. “Jason!”

The shirt rides up on his hip. It’s all red. His shirt isn’t soaked with rain,  it’s soaked in blood. His fingers start shaking when he pulls the fabric higher.

Now _he_ wants to throw up. He looks away, closing his eyes because it looks so bad.

Jay pants heavily, leaning his head back into the broken glass with red cheeks and closed eyes. “Should’ve seen the other guy.” He laughs before his face falls into a grimace, scorn turning into a wheeze of agony. His breath rattles in his lungs.

And despite how furious Dick is, it’s that sound that seizes his heart in two cold hands.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he hisses through clenched teeth. He grasps Jay’s collar in big hands and pulls until it tears. He’s got nothing to work with, he realizes when the fabric sticks to the wound. After a look around the room, he drags the blanket off the bed, grabs a corner to stuff into Jay’s mouth. His eyes widen and his hand comes around Dick’s wrist but before he can do anything, Dick’s pulling it away.

Jason’s scream is hardly muffled by the blanket but it keeps him from biting through his tongue. He spits his out, sweat dripping into his hair. His eyes are unfocused and he’s breathing too slow, doesn’t even respond outside of a full-body twitch when Dick presses the rest of the blanket to his side.

“I bet you enjoy this, Dickie-bird,” he breathes with a dazed chuckle that Dick barely hears.

“Don’t you dare—“ he starts but Jason is already gone.

“Fucking _dammit.”_

 

Jason wakes up almost three hours later—too soon to get any real rest, but late enough to be at least half as sober as he was before. The sky is milky gray with the beginnings of dawn: cloudy. Like always.

It had taken more gauze and fabric than he’s comfortable admitting to finally stop the bleeding—the motel won’t ever be able to reuse these sheets but in Gotham, he’s sure they didn't plan to anyway. Jason’s latissimus dorsi muscle had all but been carved out by Midnight’s lance. The wound starts to the left of his scapula, right into the meat of his flesh. It’s one of the worst Dick’s seen and it’s beyond him how Jason is even conscious at this point (or was before). Moving should be beyond painful and at the rate he keeps straining himself, he’s risking permanent injury. It leaves a pit of intense concern in his stomach despite his anger and when Jay finally shifts on the bed, he doesn’t know which emotion causes him to snap.

His chest heaves when he groans, eyes screwed shut. He’s soaked in sweat and panic rips through Dick’s spine all over again. He’d strapped his arm back to his chest, crossed over his midsection to restrict movement and he sees the panic in Jason’s eyes too—for a much different reason.

“Don’t pick at it,” he orders when Jay’s fingers start to pull away at the sling. The groan that seeps from his throat is a mix of a scream and a whimper when he tries to sit up, doubling over. He breathes like he’s been running a marathon and it makes Dick want to cry.

“Th’fuck?” he chokes out, sounding seconds away from vomiting again. He’d done it twice in his sleep and Jason had been fortunate that Dick had the foresight of turning him on his side before he’d left for the pharmacy.

He should be in the clear for painkillers but Dick wants to give the alcohol a little longer to work out of his system. A sick part of him wants to punish him, see him suffer.

He stands with his arms crossed against the counter. He’d had to run out in the rain and his hair is wet again, but he’d had the opportunity to change into dry clothes, a larger pair sitting behind him for Jason. “Helena and Selina took care of GCPD.”

And they had.

He’d met up with the two on a decrepit corner where even the homeless neglected to linger. The first thing Helena had done was wrap him in a hug tighter than the ones he usually gave, and he’d clung to her. She’d said nothing when she kissed his hair and held him. Selena had looked on with a blankness in her eyes. Her voice had been soft.

 _“Everything in the system has been wiped if it hadn’t been already. Even if he talks, no one will believe him.”_ He’d just nodded into Helena’s neck.

 _“We heard about Star,”_ she’d said. _“My contacts are looking out. If they find anything, we’ll know.”_ And he knows that she’s lying, that even if she wasn’t Gotham’s underground wouldn’t give up diddly-squat, even if Midnight would be stupid enough to stick around. She knows that he knows too. And when her hand came up behind his neck to pull him to her, he lets her. _“We haven’t lost yet, Blue.”_

Now, Jason nearly whines through his nose, pain ripping through the grimace on his face when he shoves his back up against the headboard. He pants, eyes bright and feverish before his head lolls to one side and he’s fixing Dick with a patronizing gaze. “Okay.”

He can’t stop the laugh, the bark of derision and if he could have, he would’ve laughed anyway. _“‘Okay?’_ That’s all they get—all I get?”

Jason winces when he pushes his bare legs over the side of the bed. He scowls. “What the hell do you wanna hear?”

The room still smells like blood and sweat and Dick narrows his eyes. “I went to Blackgate. You’re lucky Bruce isn’t here because he’d stick you right in one of those cells.”

Jason looks away. “Where is he?”

He wonders if Stephanie would’ve cried for him. Would she have blamed Jason, or ran into his arms? Would she have condemned him, or thanked him?

She’d always hated her father, he knows that. And well, when they’d first met, he hadn’t thought that C-list, playground villain Cluemaster was worthy of all that—of the passion that she exuded. No, he doesn’t think he could ever hate anyone as much as Steph hated her father.

He doesn’t know how she’d feel if she was here and that alone makes him want to cry all over again.

It’s Dick’s turn to scowl, to bite his tongue before he antagonizes the man even more. “The morgue.”

“Not Brown. Bruce,” Jay spits.

Anger simmers in his stomach. “Off world.” He pushes himself off the counter and takes an accusing step forward, not bothering to lower his voice anymore. He hasn’t yelled this loudly since Jason had been dead either. “You promised him. You promised us.”

He cracks his neck, eyelids fluttering while he does. “Mm. _Whoops.”_

His teeth grind together and his fingers curl into fists that he wishes he could bury into Jason’s face. He shouldn’t have to do this, he shouldn’t be the one who has to chase after him and clean up his messes but here he is. And Bruce, like always, is gone. “This isn’t a joke, Jason.”

Jason finally looks at him, glares right into his eyes. Feverish and bright, Dick can feel the heat from across the room. “Do I look like I’m fucking laughing?”

Dick doesn’t answer and Jason pushes himself to his feet. He stops his gut reaction to run forward to steady him, to press the back of his hand to his forehead and wipe the sweat off his skin. He forces himself to taste the chalky _hate_ in his mouth when Jason sways, jaw grinding his teeth to dust when he steadies himself.

It only takes a moment and then he’s swallowing the agony and stalking past him to the counter. He pulls the jeans on easily enough, pauses when he gets to the shirt.

Dick flirts with the idea of helping him but his vision is still to red to move. Jason gingerly pulls the shirt around his neck and then pauses. His own gaze is crimson with fury.

“Are you done?” Dick chides with his chin tilted up.

Jason turns an ugly sneer. “Are you gonna hit me again?”

He considers it.

Jason’s skin is sticky and hot. There’s no clear patch of it either; every inch is littered with dark blue bruises, scrapes and scabs still too tender for his muscles not to twitch involuntary under Dick’s fingers. His breath hitches when they do, hands bracing the edge of the counter and part of Dick’s anger fades.

No matter how hard he tries, he can never stay pissed at Jason for long. There’s something about him—the way he talks, breathes—it begs to be heard and it’s all Dick can do to bow his head and listen. He eases the hem down over his arm before switching sides. His hand is just as clammy as his chest, callouses gummy and soft. His fingertips burn when he guides them through the sleeve and when Jason winces, he does too.

“You’re in no shape to be moving,” he chastises under his breath. There’s still anger there but it’s starting to bleed into the floor. It’s too exhausting to stay that way so he doesn’t fight it when it drains.

Sometimes he thinks Jason’s sole goal in life is to kill himself.  He has no sense of self preservation, no care for what comes out of whatever meat grinder he throws himself into. Jason’s death had left a hole in his heart bigger than he’d ever admit to and seeing him fall like that—not even breathing when Midnight had shot him down—he thought it’d be Joker all over again. It had taken him hours to stop shaking.

Jason grunts, shouldering his hands away. “I won’t be here long anyway. Pardon the mess.”

There he goes again: dismissing himself like he doesn’t have a family that’s bending over backwards trying to keep his heart beating.

“Why?” he breathes.

Jay scowls. “You’re going to have to be a _bit_ more specific.”

He knocks down the hand that Jay uses to wave him away, ignoring the glare he gets in return. He thinks his voice breaks. “Stop playing games with me. _Why?”_

His phone’s on the counter and when he reaches for it, his hand shakes so bad that it sends tremors up his body. He clenches his fist in an effort to stop but if anything, he trembles even more severely. He slams his hand on the countertop. “Because the deal’s off.”

“The deal?”

He motions between them violently. “This deal. The one where you’re off limits. The one where I change my mind about killing all of you.”

Dick shakes his head, takes a few steps back and buried his hands in his hair before snapping, losing his cool against all the training Bruce had instilled in him. “You just murdered five innocent men, Jason.”

He rummages through the mess of soiled clothes on top of the dresser, no doubt looking for the pistols Helena had swiped out of GCPD lockup—also self-incriminating evidence, registered to a very _dead_ Jason Peter Todd. “No one's innocent. And if you don’t get the hell out of my way, you’ll join them.”

His eyes slide back over to Dick’s. Even hindered by the lingering clutches of alcohol and an unmeasurable amount of pain, he isn’t stupid. He knows that Dick has the firearms on his person right now: one against the small of his back and the other on his side—both hidden under his BPD jacket. And even Jason isn’t stupid enough to try fighting him for it in his current predicament. “Is this how it’s gonna be now?” he challenges, crossing his arms. “One set back and you go Lazarus? That’s _weak,_ Jay.”

Jason’s eyes narrow. “A setback?” he repeats. Then he smiles, head cocking back with a burning hate he’s used to seeing from _Gardner,_ or Rose if he’s pissed her off enough. Not from Jason—not _his_ Jason. He lets out a soundless chuckle and nods. “God, you sound just like him, y’know that? How’s his hand feel that far up your ass? I’m sure you’re used to it.”

_“You’ve always been more physical with him.” Bruce’s hand had scraped a line down his jaw. The cut above his eye burned furiously and when he leaned away, Bruce’s other hand came down on his shoulder, barring his movement._

_“It was my fault,” he muttered, wincing when Bruce held his chin steady. Bruce’s skin never burned like the other Bats’. He was cool, skin always cold and frigid, unlike his own that always ran hot._

_“You usually don’t lose your cool this easily.” Bruce dipped the cloth into a bowl of bloody water. By the time Dick was all cleaned up, it would have to be emptied at least more than once. “What was it this time?”_

_He winced away only to come back at Bruce’s chide, much sterner than the previous. He didn’t move for the rest of the conversation. “I’m too old for this.”_

_“The day you become too old for stitches is the day you walk away from this life.” Bruce placed the towel on the table and settled down, tweezers already in hand. “You let him under your skin too easily.” The pull of glass in his skin picked painfully at his temple and it clinked when he set it down in the bowl of bloody gauze. “You’re smarter than that.”_

_He grunted and Bruce pulled back. He was still in the suit, only the gloves and the cowl pulled off. Dick was sure not to come into the cave until well after Damian was sent to bed. If Damian knew what he and Jason’s talks usually ended in, he’d never hear the end of it. He supposed that maybe his father would cut him some slack, but as it turned out, he’d almost rather have the youngest Wayne there instead. “What’s going on, Dick?”_

_“Nothing,” he hissed when a shard clung stubbornly to his skin. “You know how he gets.”_

_“And I know how you get.” The change in his voice and the still of his fingers made Dick’s breath stop. “Is there something I should know?”_

_He hesitated—he never used to do that with Bruce. His voice carried a hint of warning, a knowing edge that didn’t even make it seem like a question anymore. There is something I should know._

_“No.” But as Dick had been finding out, Bruce could be wrong. “It’s complicated.”_

_Bruce noticed but hit fingers didn’t stop. They dropped the last bit of glass into the bowl, turned to thread a small surgical needle. He sighed. “I know complicated, Dick.”_

_The first stitch always hurts the most._

_“Sooner or later, you’ll have to come up for air. Better to have it be on your terms than anyone else’s”_

His hand finds itself back in Jason’s collar, pulling him past his balance point until Dick is the only thing between him and the unforgiving floor. “Watch your mouth.”

Jason’s hand grips his elbow in an attempt to right himself and only when it starts to ache does he drop him back on his heels. He scowls, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Right. While his dick is in yours.” He does a shit job at swallowing the snicker and Dick’s eyes only burn brighter.

He jabs a finger at the ground. “He taught us better than this.”

“And where is he now?” Jason snaps. His body heat burns his cheeks and he’s close enough that when Dick takes a big enough breath, his chest brushes Jay’s. He answers himself, eyes searching his own. “Hiding. Like a fucking coward. Her body is still warm and he can’t even be bothered to find the bitch that did it.”

“He _is_ going after her. Just because he’s not leaving a trail of bodies behind doesn’t mean he doesn’t care,” he argues.

Jay scoffs and leans back. “He left you and you’re still defending him.”

His teeth grind together. “This wasn’t his fault.”

“He killed Steph.“ Jason’s voice borders on annoyance now, his eyes narrowing the more Dick speaks. He’s delicate, Dick knows that. He’s like Bruce in that he talks better with his fists, the less words the better. They also have similar emotional capacities. That capacity being none. “He didn’t have to pull the trigger. She’s dead because of his bullshit code.”

“You think you could’ve done better?” he snaps.

Jason’s voice dips low, coming in close until all he can see is blue. “I would’ve shot her before she even laid a hand on Steph. She’d be dead before she even said a word.”

“Well you didn’t,” he sneers. He doesn’t know if it’s triumph or bitterness on his tongue but he convinced himself it's the former. For Bruce’s sake. Then his throat closes up. “Steph isn’t the only one who died.” Jay’s eyes flash a dangerous green and he’s quick to retract, not bothering to be nice about it.  “This isn’t some rapist you can just track through the Narrows and catch with his pants down, Jay. This guy makes Joker look like a mediocre balloon artist.” He scowls at that. “She’ll kill you.”

They both hear the same cackle in their heads, and Jason’s jaw clenches.

_“You don’t talk to me like you used to, kiddo.” He pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose before they tipped into his coffee. The diner bustled around them, quiet for that time of day but not abnormally. They’d stay._

_He waved the waitress down with a slender finger, made sure the brim of his hat was low even though this deep into the suburbs, it wouldn’t matter. “Been busy. The usual?”_

_He ordered him a double cheeseburger and an extra shake, chicken and waffles for himself. Apparently that place had been ‘Spoiler Approved.’ He swallowed the fond smile._

_“What happened?” He said once the waitress disappeared with their order. He tapped a finger to his temple, mirroring the surgical tape on Dick’s own forehead. A hand went up to play with the edges of his hair until they covered it a bit better._

_He shrugged, leaned onto his elbows to drink from his mug. “Oh, nothing I couldn’t handle.”_

_“Nothing?” Blue eyes flicked down to his knuckles, the dark bruises that bordered his trachea. A dark eyebrow rose over the rim of his glasses. “That’s not the word I’d use to describe the Red Hood.”_

_Dick’s heart sank and his mug hit the table with a knock that turned a few heads. He waited until they returned to their own meals before he fixed Clark with his darkest glare. “He put you up to this.” Clark played off his discomfort well, but not without looking away out the window. “Maybe this is why?”_

_Clark sighed and for a moment it fogged up his glasses. Dick wanted to smash them. They were fake, just like everything else about him apparently. “He’s worried.”_

_Dick scoffed, leaning back. “Batman doesn’t worry.”_

_“All he_ does _is worry. We both do.” And boy, did he play the part well. He fixed Dick with a look he could only describe as sympathetic and knowing. “Talk to me.”_

_“Ever since he came back, it’s like you’ve been holding your breath.”_

“You don’t have to pretend to care,” he spits, finally looking Dick in the eyes. It throws him for a moment: the color. The blue is striking, even in the dark, with its undertones of limes and ferns.

He hates it when they do that, when they brush him off like some clingy little kid with his head in the past just because he doesn’t brood and wallow like the rest of them. He _hates_ it. “I’m not. You know I’m not,” he growls, patience running thin all over again.  

“That’s right, you care,” Jay sneers, grabbing his boots. His lips turn and his nostrils flare. Dick just breathes and steels himself for what’s coming. “You care enough for both of us, for Bats, the kid—you care for the whole damn world! And what good has it done? B’s never had his head straight and Kori is dead. Roy can’t even look at me, the Replacement is in the wind, and the only Bat I gave a fuck about is dead because of me. So tell me, Boy Wonder: why the hell should I care, when the only thing it’s gonna get me is a bullet in my brain and every single one of you in the ground?”

They’re nose to nose when he’s through, breathing heavily down him. Dick’s throat is dry. Not for the first time, Jay’s words leave stinging welts on his skin.

“You’re not the only one hurting, Jason,” he returns coldly. The vigilante radiates fury, the searing anger that drives him rising to the surface, making his voice a little rougher, eyes a little greener. He thinks of Bruce’s warning before he can stop himself.

“But I’m the only one who’s gonna do shit about it.”

“You’re gonna get people killed,” he argues when Jason stalks to the bed, shoes in tow. “More people.”

“Not if they stay the hell out of my way.” He laces them the best he can with one hand and the knots are tied well enough that Dick won’t have to help. He thanks the universe for small miracles.

“You really want Bruce on your tail again?” he says lowly, watching Jason work his jacket over his one good shoulder, let’s it drape over the other.

“If B actually cared about us, about Steph or Tim, he would’ve stayed. But it's always the same old tune with him. His bullshit little code.” He shakes his head intensely and scowls. His hand waves, palm up with a sick little scoff on his lips. “We’re just soldiers in his war, Dick.”

He turns at that, lets the carpet catch his heel and Jay’s head snaps up. “We were never just soldiers,” he growls steadily.

“But it is a war.”

There are a lot of words fighting for space on his tongue now— _reckless_ and _dumbass_ being the most prominent until they rally themselves into comprehensible sentences. They come out like venom that they taste like it too. “So that’s your plan, then? Get yourself killed?”

Jason laughs. “The League is going in blind to a battle they have no idea how to fight. If anything, that’ll mean Thanos will be low on ammo by the time I get there.”

 _Suicide._ It’s all he’s good for. Anger plays on the ends of his nerves, dancing to a routine he’s never choreographed. He doesn’t like this kind of fury—it’s unpredictable, spontaneous.

Just for a second, he indulges him, throwing his hands down. “And what are your leads? Don’t tell me you don’t have any.”

His answer comes without hesitance. “I’m going to finish what I came here to do and I’m gonna do whatever I’ve gotta do to finish it.” Without skipping a beat and Dick hates him even more for it. “Give me my guns.”

Dick stares at his open palm, lips curling. “You just killed five innocent men. I’m not stupid enough to let it happen again.”

“You were stupid enough to let me do it the first time,” Jason growls. His eyes darken and he takes a step forward. “Give them back or I’ll take them off your dead body.” The way he says it leaves little room for doubt.

But he’s a Wayne through and through.

He doesn’t know when to stop.

“You and that bum arm?” he says so low that it might be a whisper. He can feel Jay’s anger through his chest, not even inches away. “I’d put money on you passing out before I even get started.”

The quirk in his lips throws him off and sends blood to his head. “You’ve got some balls on you, Grayson.” He barely hears it. “Not much of a spine to go with ‘em, though.”

He licks his lips.

Jay’s hand digs behind his hips and before Dick can twist his arm around and snap it, the gun’s in his hand. Jay doesn’t even point it at him, just smirks with it hanging loosely by his side. There’s a different heat in his blood now.

His face burns. “I’m coming with you.”

He scoffs, stalks to the counter and releases the magazine for a quick once over. “You weren’t invited.”

“I’m not gonna let you kill yourself on some suicide mission, Jason.” A thought worms onto his tongue with a painful jab so sudden that he can’t retract it before it’s hanging in the air between them. “I owe that to Kori.”

He wants to tell Jason that he can’t stop seeing her, That he can’t stop feeling the heat of her skin on his face, her hands on his skin. He probably feels it too. She had that effect on people.

She’d burned like fire and he’d melted for her, he’d endure any pain in the universe just to see her smile. And he thought he had. He thought he’d kept her safe but now she’s just another accident in his long line of mistakes.

He could’ve given up everything for her, could’ve dropped it all and ran but instead…

He’d wanted to see the body. After he’d seen Bruce and the team off for the tentatively dubbed Earth 53, he’d asked Zatanna to identify her.

He knew that Roy had already but he asked anyway.

She gave him the saddest look he’d ever seen and said no.

It’s the wrong thing to say.

It takes a long time for Jason to respond, to reinsert the mag without looking and let a much greener glare rest on him. “You owe her a lot more than my life, Grayson,” he finally snarls, a lot more calmly than he’d anticipated.

“Jason—“

He curses loudly through his teeth, eyes squeezing shut when he pulls the slide of the gun back with his bad hand through his shirt. Dick could reprimand him, could scold him for putting himself through more pain. Instead, he bites back a taunt to do it again. Swallows the glee and its bittersweet aftertaste.

He pants through his nose, not breaking their gaze while he maneuvers his arm behind his back, fitting the weapon where Dick had stashed it. He reaches his hand out for the other and despite all his anger, he can’t bring himself to argue anymore. He takes the holster too since he’s sure that Jason might be dumb enough to try stuffing both firearms in the belt of his jeans.

When he turns back to Dick, his eyes are more wary than hostile. He looks him up and down once and Dick tries not to bristle. “You’re either with me or you’re not, and if you’re not—“

He snaps, “I’m with you, Jason. But we play by his rules.”

Jason shakes his head instantly. “No deal.”

He puts his foot down. It’s what Bruce would want—what he’d demand. Especially now. “As long as it’s a Bat matter, we follow them.”

Jay scowls. “I’m not a Bat. And it stopped being a Bat matter as soon as she killed Conner.” He doesn’t say her name or give any indication of an intent to.

He blocks Jason’s path, stepping in from of him when he moves to the door. His face twists and when he does it again his eyes flash like he might actually throw a punch. He doesn’t. “These are the rules. As long as you wear that symbol, you are. I don’t pretend to understand the beef between you and Bruce, but we follow his lead. That’s the deal.”

“Or what?” he finally spits, dropping his eyes and returning them narrowed.

Dick mirrors his glare. “Or I’m against you.”

Jason considers this, unblinking and when he finally responds, there’s a finger in his chest and breath in his face. “When we find him, I don’t care what symbol is on my chest. He doesn’t walk away.”

“Until then—“

Jason snarls, “Knee shots.”

 

The motel is situated on the far shores of the city, just across the river from the wealthier estates that housed Wayne Manor and her neighbors. Luckily for them, access tunnels into the cave had been installed, and they weren’t too hard to access if one knew where to look.

He takes the easiest path possible and if Jason notices, he doesn’t say anything, just stalks behind him. They’d already silently established that their first stop would be the cave. They’d need their armor, gear, and hopefully, a miracle.

The hike takes upwards of an hour and even though he never makes a sound, he knows that it’s bordering Jason’s limits. He’s drenched by the time they make it into the cavern—and not from groundwater. They’re still two stories above the main level, and Dick can see through the grate that it’s occupied. There’s a flash of auburn hair by the computer, half hidden by a dark cowl, and a pale, stocky figure by her side. They hear the lift start up and by the time they’re at the bottom, Jason’s leaning more than half his body weight on Dick’s shoulder.

Alfred’s there, waiting with an unreadable look, but it’s not directed at Dick.

Jason pants around a lopsided grin, forcing himself to focus his glazed eyes on the authority between him and his next goal. When he tries and fails to get his feet under him Dick just holds him tighter. “Hey, Al.”

There’s a twitch in the man’s eye before he speaks. Dick catches Barbara’s raised eyebrow over his shoulder. Her eyes aren’t red anymore. Not with grief at least. “I don’t need to tell you the absurdity and selfishness of your actions, do I?”

The grin falls. “No, sir.”

“You were unbelievably reckless. Everything your father built—this—you could have cost us today.” His voice is tight and if her were anyone else, he might’ve been screaming, red-faced and furious and Dick supposes that underneath that cool exteriors he is. “If we lose sight of why we do what we do, then we’re no better than the lot we put away.”

Jason actually looks away, ducking his head slightly and a lot more satisfaction than appropriate floods Dick’s stomach. “Yes, sir.”

“No matter what delusion of independence and solidarity you have confined yourself to, you will always be a Wayne. Until the day I die, you boys are all I have and I _refuse_ to lose another.” His voice softens slightly. “I was never meant to outlive any of you—no matter how little you think of yourselves.”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

The edge comes back when he snaps. “We don’t lie in this house either.” Then back, way back to the voice he’d used when they were just boys on the front steps of the manor, neck craned back to count all the windows, craned back to grin shyly at the man who’d brought them there. The voice, that for the first time in their lives was completely, utterly, undeniably _safe._ “Come here, boy.”

For the first time, Jason visibly deflates and even though he still expertly evades Alfred probing gaze, he accepts the touch, resists for just a moment before his body decides to melt. When his eyes squeeze shut against Al’s shoulder, he looks away, stalking past instead to the monitors where Barbara looks on with a heated glare.

“What the hell happened?” she hisses.

He spares her a glance that toes a dangerous edge of dismissal, reaching for the keyboard. He’s only vaguely familiar with the controls, but this he’s used enough times to get right on the first try. When he’s pulled it up, he reaches for the headset Barbara had left abandoned. He puts the mic in to his mouth, gazing at the map of the city but for all intents and purposes, not really seeing it.

“Any available units, I need a 98-7 at 7019 Barker Avenue, 250 Alloway Creek, and 16300 Willows Road.”

She snatches it out of his hand and he lets her, straightening when her finger stabs a single key that closes the program. Her eyes are wide with fury. Of course she’d know the code—he’s father’s the damn commissioner. He wouldn’t have hid it from her anyway but her anger just makes it that much more complicated. “Explain, Dick, or so help me I will beat the answer out of you,” she seethes lowly.

“Arthur Brown is dead.”

“What?” The first one is reflexive. When she repeats it much quieter with a horror-filled quake, it’s with comprehension.

He shakes his head before she can gather herself enough to ask the same question he’d had. “They won’t be able to connect it to him or Steph. Selena wiped their records. Said she’ll take care of it before it goes anywhere in the system.”

There’s a long moment where he think that she just might accept it—just like that. Then she remembers who she is, and he remembers who he’s talking to. “‘Won’t be able to connect it?’” she repeats, scorn heavy on her tongue. _“I’m sorry,_ do you think my father is _stupid_ enough to believe that some B-list villain gets on the _Red Hood’s_ radar out of _coincidence?”_

“It’s Gotham. He can pin it on anyone and it’ll be believable.”

“Don’t insult his intelligence, Dick,” she shoots back and a spark of indignant offense hits the base of his spine.

“I’m not,” he bites then reigns in his anger.

She glances back at Jason and Alfred who have pulled away from each other. Al is murmuring something intently to him and even though he scowls, he nods stiffly. She turns back to him, dropping her voice even more and hissing violently. “We aren’t above the law.”

He casts her a incredulous look. “Our whole schtick is about being _above the law,_ Barbara.”

Her green eyes narrow and flare. “Not like this.”

Exasperation plays on his tip of his tongue when he leans forward on the desk, completely ready to just collapse and let the nightmares come back to him in the shadows of his room. At least there, _he’s_ the one screaming  at himself. “We can’t arrest him. It’s _Jason.”_

She surges forward, eyes flashing. “Maybe that’s why we should!”

Jason’s voice cuts between the pieces of the response he’s constructing on his lips and they both turn over their shoulder to regard him in varying levels of rage. “Is all my stuff still here?”

Barbara takes a menacing step forward before he catches her bicep. “You have some fucking nerve coming back here, asshole,” she snarls. “Do you have _any_ idea what you put on the line?”

He wants to laugh, almost smiles just at how similar her words are to the ones he’d thrown back at the motel. “I’ve already tried, Babs. Don’t bother.”

Jason’s eyes flick over just once with enough venom to satisfy Bane for _years,_ but it’s redirected when Babs’ tirade continues. “We’re all grieving, you don’t have to _murder_ to get past this.”

He scowls deeply, not even bothering to deny either accusation. “It isn’t about what I _have_ to do, Gordon. Don’t act like the world isn’t a better place without them.”

It comes from the loft above them and when he looks up, Damian’s glare is green and as cold as his voice. “If you’re going to fall back into bad habits, at least try not to drag us down with you, Todd.”

Jason’s lip curls into a one-sided smirk. “Bad habits, huh? And what exactly are you doing here? Sitting on your ass feeling sorry for yourself? Guess what, kid: Daddy left you here too.”

Damian snarls, hackles rising when he leans farther over the railing. He should stop them, should get in between them before they say something they regret but he can’t move. He can’t stop watching the sound bytes on the screen just go. “My father never should’ve taken pity on you. He should have left you on the streets to die like the rest of you.”

Barbara steps in between them as best she can, pushing Jay back with a gentle hand and craning her neck up to glare at the youngest Robin. “Guys, that’s enough.”

Jason lets out a low chuckle, softly but firmly swatting Babs’ hand away, pushing her to the side. “The rest of us?” he echoes dangerously. Something taps a warning behind his skull.

Dami sneers, a nasty sound and nastier words that drip with grief neither of them are lucid enough to read. They’re both drunk on it and it’s only worsened by the fact that neither of them have any sort of tact when it comes to emotions _anyway._ His words scrape at Dick’s chest and he guesses that from the look on Jason’s face, it feels a lot like the same thing. “Unlike Grayson, Gordon and I—even _Drake—_ you and Brown were always too weak to keep up.”

“You wanna run that by me again, _al Ghul?”_ Jason takes a menacing step forward, snarling.

“You can pretend to be worthy of that symbol, but you can stop pretending to be good.” He steps over the railing and falls lightly in front of them. His chin tilts up and even half of Jason’s size, his body language just _dares_ any of them to _try_ touching him. “We all know you’re little more than a street rat.”

Jason’s never been good at resisting dares.

He finally hisses, shoving his way between them. “Damian!” Their glares burn straight through.

Jason tips his head and drawls, lowly, sweetly before he coats it in pure malice. “And _you._ You can quit pretending that you’re anything more than a killer. Sure, I’ve got blood on my hands, but what’s your body count, Little D? It’s in your fucking blood.” He leans down, around Dick’s body to croon patronizingly, and Damian fumes. “So maybe I should stop pretending to be good, and you?” His face curls in disgust and Damian’s eyes flare. “Stop pretending to be _human.”_

“Jason!” Barbara snaps. She successfully pulls him away, dragging him down roughly by his good shoulder. There’s a smug smile on his lips and before Dick can defuse him, Damian is throwing something even worse back.

He spits, all the venom in the world not even closely measured to the _hate_ and _disgust_ in his one sentence. “Do us all a favor, Todd: pay the clown a visit and let him finish the job you’re too weak to do.”

 _“That’s enough!”_ Alfred’s command goes completely unregistered as Jay whirls, tearing himself out of Barbara’s hold with virid eyes. His palm slams into his chest before he can charge through him and Dick catches himself straining a bit harder than usual to match Jason’s strength. For a moment, it borders superhuman, like it usually does when the pit’s claws are this deep in his head and he nearly breathes fire while he stares Damian down, intent clear in his eyes until Dick holds the back of his neck and says his name in a growl. Jason blinks angrily and then his eyes focus on Dick’s instead.

He lets Barbara drag him away, let’s her shove him into Bruce’s chair while Alfred’s stern bark washes over all of them.

It isn’t like Bruce’s “Get Back Here,” or “You Fucked Up” voice. It doesn’t _demand_ their compliance, doesn’t threaten their dignity and ego should they refuse, doesn’t belittle or scold. It _requests._ And for reasons Dick still hasn’t been able to decipher, it makes it all the more impossible to disobey.

“Master Damian. Sit. Down,” he orders, waiting until Damian eyes slide challengingly to his before he caves, snapping his cape with a sharp _tt,_ and this snarl. Alfred turns his burning gaze onto all of them. No one has the balls to hold the stare. “I will _not_ let this family tear itself apart.”

Damian scoffs again, at what part, he isn’t sure, but he has an idea. His stomach clenches.

“It’s not what she’d want,” Babs adds after a moment. Solemnly.

Jason scowls, stands up angrily and fixes her with his own teal glare. “Like you’d even know that.”

Dick is in his way before he can get any farther. He jabs a finger back at the chair and after narrowing his eyes, Jason slaps his hand down hard enough that he gets pins and needles. But he turns back to lean on the desk, crossing his arm over his chest. “We’re a family. No matter what, okay? I’m sick of fighting. Jason is right—sitting around isn’t going to help us find who did this. Neither is shooting our way through this,” he adds with a pointed looks between Jason and Barbara. She returns a glare but there’s uncertainty and guarded resignment pursing her lips. “But we need to do something.”

Damian’s already stomping up the access ramp to his bike, snatching his helmet off the workbench when he passes. “Do your _something_ alone,” he sneers before pulling it on and mounting the vehicle. Dick starts to pull away and stop him but in the next moment, the cave is filled with the sound of a furious revving engine.

“Let him go,” Barbara says when it’s faded enough to speak normally again. She casts him an unreadable look and turns to the computer.

Jason is considerate enough to grace him with more than a passing glance and Dick just hates him even more. Alfred stalks over to the medical bay and returns with a few pills and a Dixie cup of water. He swallows them dry, doesn’t take the water but Alfred doesn’t move, just stands there expectantly until Jason curls his lips and takes the cup too. “If you can keep the badges off the streets until I’m gone, that’d be great. I’m going to have to drive to my place.”

“One—why the hell would I do that, and two—“ Barbara scowls, turning her head over her shoulder from where she’s bent over the keyboard. “For what?”

He sets the cup down heavily on the desk by her hand, glaring. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Bruce has this weird aversion to ammunition and I’m gonna need more than a couple mags.”

She straightens, glances at Dick for just half a second before she turns her glare back to Jason. “Where the hell are you going?”

His next words come through his teeth, a hint of warning. “Hunting. And I need the plane.”

Her eyes narrow and Alfred steps back, gauging the both of them. “What?”

“I’m going after Tim. This may not be his fault but he definitely played a part.”

She laughs, not the pretty, happy one he loves, but one overfilled with sardonic dismissal. “Are you insane?” She turns to the rest of them and repeats much more aggressively, “Is he insane?”

Jason just smiles mockingly. “Like I said, I’m doing my job.” It turns into a warning frown. “Where did he go, Gordon?”

She looks at Dick and then back again. “Does Bruce know about this?”

He throws his head back and barks out a laugh so sickeningly _genuine._ “It would surprise you how much of a fuck I _don’t give._ ”

Barbara’s apprehension turns swiftly into a snarl to match his. “After this stunt you just pulled, you really think I’m going to let _you_ go after him? He’d have better luck if I sent Roman _freaking_ Sionis.”

Jay’s eyes widen and then narrow to mere slits. There are the warning bells again and Dick wonders if it would actually be so bad to ignore them. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“It is well within your extensive abilities and training to _watch your mouth,_ Master Jason. Far be it for me to confine you to the walls of this house, and considering the severity of your injuries I’m afraid I’ll have to insist.” He’s never seen Alfred so genuinely pissed and _all_ of them—Jason included—freeze, faces blanched as the icy tones of his voice seep into their spines.

Jason recovers quickly compared to the rest of them but his body language trades back and forth between reluctance and defiance. “That’s sweet, Al, but I’m fine,” he mutters dismissively.

“Exhibiting symptoms of blood poisoning and sepsis is far from _any_ definition of ‘fine’ that I am familiar with.” He delivers the retort curtly, just one tone variation away from a growl and he can see Jay involuntarily shrink back from the smaller man. “Barbara will keep you company until Cassandra arrives.”

His lip curls. “I’m not staying here while Stephanie’s killer walks free.”

Alfred sniffs with _disdain_ and Jay’s eyes widen. “You’ll stay here as long as I see fit, Jason Peter Todd. When you can prove to me that you can _sneeze_ without compromising the future rotary function of your arm, I will _consider_ letting you take the dog for a walk down the _hallway._  Until then—“ The break in his voice is so casual and accidental that a normal person may have overlooked it without a second thought. “Until then, Miss Brown’s killer will have to endure.”

Jason scowls but there’s still hesitation on his tongue before he retorts, choosing his words and delivery with forethought he’s never given anyone else. “By the time I get your _permission,_ a lot more people could die.”

“People she kills, or you?” Barbara scoffs under her breath. She collapses into Bruce’s chair, massaging her eyes.

Dick chews his lip, already hating himself for the words forming on his tongue. “He has a point. Her trail is already cold. We wait too long and we could lose it for good.”

Barbara looks up momentarily with a cocked eyebrow and narrowed green irises. Alfred’s response is much more invested. “I am not losing any more children to this harlot, Master Dick. Now more than ever, your survival is my sole priority.”

He shakes his head. “It always has been.” But still, responsibility has always been something that Dick took on without being asked, without it being expected of him. Because Bruce has left them before and they’ve done this. The Cowl always fell to him, be it physically, or metaphorically. All of them, they’re his responsibility. They always have been.

“What if I go with him?”

They all talk over each other in the same moment, Jason’s “Not this shit again,” rolling over Barbara’s simple but empathetic “No” and into Alfred’s much more eloquent “I am unsure of why you even consider that an appropriate alternative, Master Dick.”

Jason’s shoulder catches on his when he stalks into the center of the room, shaking his head, eyebrows furrowed. “We still don’t know what Midnight wants. Tim’s got the best chance of knowing what it is and why. But—“

There’s smoke in his lungs, water in his throat. His suit sticks to his skin and there’s dust in his teeth.   _There really is no escaping you hero types._

The resounding scream is so real that he almost turns, almost looks over his shoulder as if she’d be right there, writhing on the ground begging him to make it all stop. He was too late, he’s always too late. _I’ve made gods of lies speak truths._

Heat on his face when the blast outpaces him, sears his skin before it bores into Jason’s flesh, into Stephanie’s. The _sound_ of her shriek cutting off, all the breath in her lungs vaporizing when the meat of her organs splatters like paint on the ground. _Tell him what I want, girl._

_What I want._

All the attacks, all the times she’d confronted a super and walked away empty-handed.

“But what?” Barbara urges.

“I just thought of something.”

Jason scoffs, rolling his eyes. _“That’s_ never good.”

His hands move rapidly, trying to keep up with the speed of the thoughts, the realization dawning in his mind. Barbara’s concern melts into curiosity. “Her targets,” he says, “ She hit cities specific to the League, places under their protection. She never did more damage than necessary.”

“Than necessary to what?”

“To draw us out.” _Tell him what I want._ Not what: _who._ “She knows that if she asks for the cube, we might give it up. It’s why she tortured Stephanie and Kori.”

He holds his voice still enough to stop it from cracking but it doesn’t hide the raw grief. Jason looks away too sharply for him to gauge a reaction.

Barbara looks between them. “But we don’t.”

“She said she knows hero types. She knows that whoever _does_ have the cube will come forward to stop her. But no one ever did—she had to assume that _someone_ would break, that we were hiding them but we _weren’t._ Hero types: we protect each other. She figured that eventually, someone would squeal.” He breathes heavier now. Jason turns back, fixing him with a stare he can’t decipher. Babs’ dawning horror, he can. _“We_ don’t have it, but what if she knows who does?”

“Drawing him out,” she echoes. Her hands fly to her mouth. “Oh, God—Tim—“ Behind her, Alfred pales.

“Barbara,” Jason starts.

She’s already turned around, fingers shaking violently enough that she has to retype several commands before they work as intended. Dick holds his breath. “Alvin Draper got on a flight to Kathmandu a week ago. Took one of WE’s private planes. He landed at a local airport, stayed a few days then headed southwest towards Nairobi. Aircraft went dark at these coordinates.”

Jay kicks off the desk, starts pulling off his jacket and reaching for the hem of his shirt. He Belinda for the medical bay before Dick can figure out what he’s doing. “Do pre-flight for the Batplane. I’ll be back.”

Barbara turns around. Her eyes are still dry but they’re a great deal redder. They narrow angrily at the broad shoulders stalking away from them. “Jason, you’re _hurt.”_

He answers without looking, raising his voice to cover the distance he crosses. It’s when he passes the med bay to the lockers that Dick understands. “Whether he knows it or not, Drake’s put himself on a hit list and if we don’t get to him first, Midnight will.”

“I’ll go with him,” he says before he can stop himself.

Jason glances at him again as he’s pulling his gear out of his locker and peeling off his shirt. None of them comment on how it’s already been soiled with sweat. He takes off the makeshift sling too, gently focusing on trying not to wince or groan through his teeth. Regardless, he can’t quite peel the agony from his face.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Barbara hisses and only half of it sounds condescending.

“Only if he’s stupid,” Jay returns once he’s pulled all the wrapping away. The gauze over the wound is still white when he pulls his compression shirt over it. It’s when he starts moving to pull the rest of his uniform and armor on that Barbara turns her exasperated gaze to him instead.

No, not exasperated—desperate.

 _“Dick,”_ she pleads, stepping closer to him and ducking her head. Her eyes flick across his face wildly and her fingertips twitch against the arms she tucks close to her chest. “You can’t leave.”

He shakes his head, still watching Jason silently pull on his cargo pants and belt. He doesn’t wince when he moves his arm but the stiffness in his jaw and the pale sweat on his brow tell him that it isn't due to lack of pain. His gaze lingers on the firearms already situated on Jay’s thighs before he truly registers what he’s looking at. He keeps his voice just as low, looks back at Barbara. “If I let him go alone, a lot more people are going to die.”

It only serves to trouble her more. It floors him just how inconsolable she is. Her hand snaps out to grip his forearm and even though it’s cold, he suppresses the urge to flinch like she’s burned him. “Look. Bruce is gone. Steph—“ Her words fall apart before they reach her lips and the first tear slips past her cheek. She dashes it away as quickly as it comes, attacking it angrily with the back of her hand before he can sweep it away. Her voice tightens. “I need you here, Dick.”

He brushes her hair back instead. The motion is so familiar that he almost concedes, almost tells her that he’ll stay, let Midnight keep looking and let people keep dying.

It’s not who he is. He knows that without even consciously making the decision. She knows it too and her eyes screw shut before he’s said a word. “I’ll be a phone call away. I promise.” She leans her head into his palm. He can feel her jaw trembling, feel how hard she’s trying to hold herself together—for his sake. Jason’s gaze starts to burn into his neck and when he chances a glance, he sees him staring darkly, no chest armor, no bat, just guns and jacket, helmet in hand. He takes a breath, trying not to hone in on the shudder in Barbara’s eyelids when she braces herself for what they both saw coming. “We have to find Tim. If he really is in the middle of this, we have to find him before she does.”

Her eyes slip open, verdant and bright with a new conviction. She steals the confidence from his hand, leeches it until her breath is steady and her back is straight. “I’ll give you everything I have,” she nods, sniffing and pulling away.

He wants to pull her back and hold her before the universe takes her too but there’s steel in his muscles stopping him. “Thank you. Alfred—“ he starts, but the man is already there, wrapping him in an embrace so tight that it makes his tender ribs cry out in pain but he endures it.

“I can’t lose another one, Dick—“ he whispers and Dick grips him like he’ll disappear.

“I know. I’m gonna bring them back, I promise.”

Alfred nods into his neck. They’re the same height now and Dick remembers when he was smaller, noticing every time Alfred was beside himself, hiding his emotions away so well that no one would ever be able to call him out on his hypocrisy. No one except for Dick. “We’ll do what we can from here.”

“I’ll contact the League,” Barbara adds.

He lets Alfred step away, let’s his lifeline pull back. Still, his voice doesn’t catch, words don’t chip. They can’t. For his own sake.

The smile slips on and it isn’t all a mask. “Keep the skies clear, yeah? If you can tell me where Damian went—“

Jason cuts in then, already halfway up the stairs, calling numbly over his shoulder. “If you leave, I’m not going to wait for you.” The hood’s on now and it’s still damaged. The paint is chipped off badly along the right face and jawline exposing dark silver metal. The scratches smear against each other and there are places where the plates have started to pull apart, leaving gaps, chinks in the armor—literally.

It makes him look like a killer.

Dick lifts his chin, narrowing his eyes at the helmet’s white-blue stare. “I have to tell him where we’re going. It’ll only take a second.”

He shrugs after a moment's pause, turning back to stalk up the rest of the flight. “Suit yourself.”

“Jason—“ he grinds out sharply.

As expected, Jason’s response to the grit in his voice is immediate and hostile. He leans back on the railing, sneering down at the three of them. “You choose now. Him or me.”

It really isn’t a question—it shouldn’t be. But he knows that Jason _will_ leave and once he does, there’s no way to ensure that he’ll ever catch up. If he doesn’t want him to, then he won’t. “I—“

Barbara’s hand squeezes his shoulder and she nods. “I’ve got it.” She hesitates and then presses her lips to his cheek, hard and quick. “Be safe.”

He almost yanks away but he forces himself to linger, to stay just a second longer _just in case._ His forehead brushes hers and she _knows._ There’s a million words, years of grief and regret and things they should’ve said all packed into that half beat of silence where he holds her as tight as he can.

He grabs his duffel from the locker, stuffing his suit inside before he’s taking the stair two at a time. Jason lets him shoulder past, watching his face even though Dick never spares him the fury in his glare. But he makes sure that Jason can feel it, makes sure he knows how far he’s taken this and how much farther he’ll go in just two words:

“Let’s go.”


	9. /rain_2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Dick can think about is how he didn’t see any of it coming.

Sometimes, Dick _really_ wishes that he could hold onto his anger like Bruce and Jason do: tuck it away instead of watching it evaporate from his skin mere minutes after it had boiled in his veins. It’s unhealthy, destructive—hell, if Jason hadn’t already proved that a million times over in the past day alone—but it’s also a lot easier than wading through the murkiness of emotions that exist between forgiveness, and just letting it go.

It takes him about an hour to get to that point and by then they’re already in the air.

It takes almost the remainder of the flight to gather the strength to do anything more than doze uncomfortably to the sounds of Jason’s more tortured sleep, and card through the measly evidence they’d ransacked from the apartment.

He tries to call Damian and it goes straight to voicemail. The same thing happens when he calls Roy.

Donna is the first to pick up and he spends the next five seconds at a total loss for words.

He gets an update on things on the Watchtower. Aquaman, Manhunter, and Arrow are the acting authorities, naturally. They’ve gotten word to Oa, no update on Kyle’s condition, but Gardner and Stewart are on their way back. She tells him how tense things are; how things weren’t as okay in Atlantis as Arthur made them out to be, how they’re considering bringing Lex Luthor on, and how the public is starting to crack down on the fact that something is _very wrong._

It won’t be long until they call _him_ aboard, ask him to put on the cowl because if this isn’t an all-hands-on-deck situation then what is? And he should. It won’t take long for people to realize that there’s no bat cleaning up Park Row anymore, and as short-handed as they are, that kind of power vacuum will fill up fast. It wouldn’t be so bad but there are only two of them in Gotham now—three once Cass arrives (and she’s strong but Dick isn’t entirely sure how she’s coping. Out of all the Bats, she was closest to Stephanie).

He could reach out to Azrael, Kate, Harper. Duke’s good but he’s not sure how comfortable he is giving him his own route yet. He might not have a choice. He doesn’t doubt that Barbara’s already reached out to Luke, if he hadn’t done so first. He can hold his own. He could take Steph’s route. Damian should be fine patrolling alone, he’s done it before, but his route with Bruce covers a much wider area. There aren’t many people Dami works well with. He could ask Lois if she could send Jon. Maybe see if Kara isn’t busy in National City…

He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he misses what Donna says next, apologizing and asking her to repeat herself. He reaches over the flight console to tell Barbara to contact Luke, if she hasn’t already done so, Azrael, and Kara.

_“He still hasn’t said anything.”_

His hands freeze on the screen, a chill carving out the ridges in his spine.

 _“I mean, he’s_ said _things—asked for water, the time. But other times it’s like he doesn’t even see me.”_ The call doesn’t have the best quality but he can hear the notes of defeat that mirror his own. _“Dinah’s been coming in to change his dressings. He won’t let Oliver in—not that he’s even tried. But…”_ The bitterness trails off. _“Dick, I don’t know what to do.”_

He wishes he had the answer but some sick part of him is mildly grateful that he isn’t there to see. Part of it is because he’s still got that other version of Arsenal in his mind: the one that played along with all of Wally’s jokes, had a mind just as dirty, teased Garth and Lilith into dangerous territory and used the cheesiest pick-up lines in the middle of battle, just to get Donna to smile across the field.

The other part—the selfish part, doesn’t want to be reminded of what happened after that.

He knows who Roy needs right now. And it isn’t him, or Donna, or any of the Titans. He hasn’t been one for a long time. He needs an Outlaw. He says as such under his breath, head in his hands.

He doesn’t have to imagine her disapproval because he can hear it. It hurts when he finds himself agreeing.

Whatever Alfred had given Jason kicked in about half an hour into the flight. It doesn’t help the fever that set in during the second hour, or the nightmares in the third when he failed to wake. He started screaming in the fourth.

 _“I can meet you wherever you are. Give me the coordinates,”_ Donna is saying over the comm link. He’s about to refuse; Roy may need Jason, but he also needs her, and he’s sure that if Donna shows up, only one of them will be going home. Before he can answer however, there’s a muffled mewl that they both hear.

They hadn’t gotten the Batplane, instead, one of Lucius’ older models—a design for League transport, so it’s a bit more spacious than Bruce’s other craft. The bay is much bigger and allows for movement around the cabin, separated from the actual cockpit. Nevertheless, he can hear the vigilante’s murmurs over the sound of Donna’s voice. And apparently, so can she. _“Is that_ him?” He doesn’t grant her an answer before he’s engaging the autopilot and muting the link.

“Jason?”

Yeah, he wishes he was still as furious as he was back in the cave because now, it’s all murky with worry and it’s complicated.

The heat burns his palm before it even meets his forehead and Jason does nothing to indicate that he even acknowledges his presence. His face twists violently, pressing into his shoulder while the sweat slicks his hair to his skin, cheeks flushed dark pink. He’s lying on one of the built-in bunks, pressed so far up against the wall that when Dick sits on the edge, there’s still space between his back and the side of Jason’s thigh. “Hey,” he murmurs, pressing the back of his palm to his head only to get the same burning heat. He doesn’t know what’s more unnerving: the fact that Jason isn’t waking up under the weight of his hand, or that he’s moving around so much in his sleep.

He’s seen Jason sleep before and it never involved much motion (and never on his back either). But this is wild, erratic, and the heat comes off him in waves.

The last time any of them had gotten sick it had been Damian who’d been traipsing around the manor with half a tissue box up his nose and an explosive temper to match. Ultimately, it had been Diana who’d come around to rein him into the couch with blankets, Theraflu, and three seasons of Criminal Minds while the rest of them watched open-mouthed. And after two episodes of bad-mouthing profiling, Hollywood’s take on forensic investigation, and predicting the entire plot-line, he’d passed out. According to Babs, it had been nice to deal with an ailment as domestic as the common cold.

He remembers the last time he’d seen Jason asleep. They both do.

The muzzle is digging into his rib cage before he can disarm it and for the second time in as many days it seems, Jason’s got him at gunpoint.

It’s getting old but… this time it’s his fault.

“Are you fucking crazy?” For a moment he looks as terrified as he does furious, already dropping the gun onto his stomach, keeping as far away from his as possible. He hides his face behind his hand, not well enough to hide the trembling in his fingers. Guilt charges down his chest.

They all know well enough not to wake each other in a way that could end violently. He’d learned that early on when a nightmare led him into Bruce’s bedroom.

He hovers nervously by his side, unwilling to leave but also unwilling to let Jason know just how rattled _he_ is. Regardless, it stops the screaming, and he can take a gun for that.

“No, but I’m pretty tired of you waving that thing in my face. Do you mind?” He’s positive that he doesn’t sound the least bit shaken or sheepish when he says it, if Jason’s reluctant scowl is anything to go off of. He doesn’t break their gaze when he returns the weapon to his thigh, then drops his head back onto the cot. Still, he hesitates. “You wanna talk about it?” he asks softly.

Jason looks away and fails to hide the grimace, the twist of his face when he tries to turn. “Where are we?” He manages, teeth sliding against each other as he does.

He chews his lip. “About two hours out. You slept almost the whole way, that’s good.” He stops himself from reaching for Jason’s forehead again, from mothering.

Jason catches his hand anyways, skin clammy when he slaps it away. “Tell Gordon we’re almost there. Once we’re in view of the crash site we’re gonna need to upload the flight recorder data for her to decrypt.”

He swings his legs over the side of the cot, just barely managing to stay silent and he’s close enough to see just how hard he’s grinding his teeth together. “Jason, you’re sick. You shouldn’t even be moving around.” He doesn’t say a word and just when Dick thinks he’s ignoring him to be petty, he hears the rattling in his chest when he breathes. The worry knots tighter.  “Hey. Talk to me.”

He casts him a venomous look and it would’ve been at least a little threatening if he didn’t look a sneeze away from unconsciousness. “If you’re done with the whole mama bear thing, we have a job to do.”

Jason wavers on his feet, throwing a hand out to grab the edge of the cot while Dick’s hovers just over his elbow, ready to take his weight if it chose to sway the other way. Fortunately, turbulence works in his favor, breaking enough for him to regain his balance. Still, it’s enough for his jaw to set. “Sit down.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re on _my_ mission, Grayson. Let’s not forget that.”

When he returns to the cockpit, Jason’s assumed his chair, tapping away at the console with his eyes squinted against the sunlight. Donna’s call is gone and he can’t even get angry.

“She says Harper still isn’t talking,” he offers, crossing his arms.

Jay reclines the chair, sighing contentedly through his nose. He doesn’t look all that much better than he did when he’d settled down to sleep, but the exhaustion is a little less obvious in his face. He still holds his arm awkwardly, like moving it pinches the swelling under his armor. But he scoffs. “Ain’t that a blessing in disguise.”

He wishes there was dry humor in it, but there isn’t even that.

He fiddles with some of the switches on the console before sighing again. “Loosin’ a leg will do that to you.” He digs into one of his pockets until he produces an old cigarette. His mouth twists when he balances it between his lips and his fingers twitch but he has the sense not to light it.

Dick just frowns. He doesn’t know when Jason learned about Roy’s condition because neither of them were conscious when Dick had snooped on the League’s debrief. It could’ve been after Bruce told him what happened to Kori. There were more than a few blank spots in Jason’s alibi between that and his arrest in Crime Alley’s worst bar.

His _own_ alibi isn’t even that strong. There are moments that Dick can’t account for after Bruce had ordered them into the cave. After he’d run out only to come back after realizing that Gotham wasn’t his anymore.

Times like that, he missed Blüdhaven. Missed San Francisco and the walls of the Tower.

He misses a lot of things. But not the distant concern in Jay’s voice. He opens his mouth to say something but his gaze averts to the cloud bank on the blue horizon, a far away glaze in his eyes. So Dick just closes his mouth and maneuvers his way into the other chair by his side, settles into the cushions and rests his head back.

Jason’s presence is a lot like Bruce’s: a disinterested predator. Like Richard Parker after deciding that Pi might not be a pleasant meal—but also not quite a pleasant companion. He isn’t sure if he’s Pi, or the zebra in this analogy but he sure hopes that it’s the former. It’s unnerving, but also _comforting._ It doesn’t take long for him to relax and whenever he chances peeks at the other man, he’s still gazing out at the sky, foot resting gingerly on the dashboard, cigarette in his mouth, knife turning end over end in one mindless palm.

Even that should be a warning. But it isn’t.

He drifts in and out of sleep and Jason lets him for the remaining hour and a half.

A lot of it is purple, filled with laughter and flashes of gold. Some of it is red, speckled with green and heat on his lips. But the rest is dark. Rain falls onto his lips instead of kisses and the water is cold with Gotham soot.

A long time ago, it tasted like hell to him. Now, he can’t get enough.

Like in all dreams, time is inconsistent, a constant ride between whitewater rapids and stagnant ponds. Too long, the smell of citrus fills his lungs, only for him to chase the whiff of vanilla buried deep in his mind.

There are kisses on his cheeks, legs tangled under cold sheets, burning skin and soft hair that tangles in his fingers when he pulls it.

There are bubbles in his chest, ones that sting when they pop but release such an intense glee that it really doesn’t matter. He’s grinning so wide and when he laughs it’s not his own.

This time, the pang isn’t imagined, or in his throat—it’s straight through his chest, centered in his ribcage, framed by each of his ribboned lungs.

It’s the cold: ice water in his teeth, shattering his fingers into numbing pinpricks of pain.

It’s when he gets that dreaded sensation of falling backwards, headlong into sleep that he wakes silently.

He recognizes the sound of the air brakes deploying and the decrease in speed and altitude, blinking himself fully awake. Jason spares him a blank look, hands on his thighs. “Morning, sleeping beauty,” he drawls, looking back to his helmet, balanced between his knees.

Dick drifts for a long moment, caught up in the hazy space in between sleep and consciousness. He traces the sun in Jay’s hair, the bruises on his cheeks and his blackening eye, catalogs the tail of smoke that rises delicately in the air when he leans over the open circuitry of his helmet. There’s some tool pinched in his fingers, one that he threads carefully into the scarred, peeling metal.

Outside, the scenery has changed from an undefined slate of greens and browns, to a much closer texture of leafy canopies, sparse in between yawning expanses of pale prairie grass. The sun still beats with midday ferocity, hard enough through the sloped glass of the windshield that it brings a film of sweat up to his skin. He wipes it from his arms, biting his scowl before giving up.

Jason doesn’t ask what he dreamt about, or even if he’s okay and he doesn’t know if that’s because he’s petty, or just Jason. Whatever it is, it fills the ice in his teeth with bitter hate. “How far out?” he asks instead, trying not to dwell on the aftertaste of sleep.

The unlit cigarette in his lips tilts up and down while he weighs his answer. “Fifty miles?” He squints against the sun. “No visual yet.”

“We might be able to see a debris trail by now,” he says, perking up. For the first time, answers seem to be just around the corner, no matter how dark they might turn out to be. Jason is definitely banking on that front, if the frown on his lips is anything to go by. “Assuming he crashed,” he adds hastily.

He just squints harder, tightening his lips around his cigarette. “Depends. No way to get diagnostics up in the air.” His mouth quirks and he sets his helmet to the side, turning to the controls of the aircraft and reaching up to flip several glowing switches. “Care to do the honors?”

All it takes is the push of a button.

_“Batgirl.”_

“Thought you were going by Oracle these days?”

 _“It varies.”_ Hearing her voice through the cockpit speakers sends a thrum of warmth down his spine. Even through the thousands of miles and mic quality that leaves much to be desired, he can hear the relief in her voice; the torch that they’d always wrestle each other for that marked them as the eldest sibling. She wields it with both hands now and he’s content to let her. _“It’s good to hear from you guys.”_

“You too, Batgirl,” Dick says with a smile.

_“Sat puts you at just under fifty miles outside the coordinate zone. What’s it look like out there?”_

“Like a lot of trees,” Dick deadpans and Jason snorts.

_“Trees?”_

“Yeah. We won’t have visual for a few more minutes. Is there anything you can grab diagnostic-wise about the aircraft before it went dark?”

_“If he was under the radar, he wouldn’t have bounced off many control towers—not that there are many out there.”_

Dick blinks. “Does he even have a pilot’s license?”

_“Alvin Draper does.”_

Jason laughs at the face he makes. “Is that a no, B?”

_“I can’t get much more than altitude and speed until you get me the flight recorder. It’ll take awhile to upload via the sat uplink but I’ll be able to do a full systems check.”_

“What about those messages?” Dick says, recalling Tim’s chat logs. “There was a group of archaeologists that went missing around here, right? And his first case?”

_“Right. It was Emily Blaccard, grad student at Cambridge. Led a team of surveyors and excavators on an unauthorized dig project. Ended up disappearing for about two months before anyone reported her missing. The case is still officially open.”_

“Why was he looking into it?”

_“When he was overseas looking for Bruce he unearthed a small arms and human trafficking ring in the area. The weapons were unique, untraceable but he shut it down and forgot about it until now I guess.”_

“Was Blaccard abducted?” Jason asks.

The mic shuffled like Babs is shaking her head. _“It’d be impossible to know for sure, even if the ring was still running. Most organizations don’t identify their girls by anything other than number. There’d be no way of telling who’s who, or where they ended up.”_

“She wouldn’t have been a target anyway,” Dick muses. “Trafficking rings usually don’t hit more than two victims at a time. With her dig team she wouldn’t have been a first choice, or even a second.”

Jason casts him a sideways glance. “Maybe she’s still out there. Surviving.”

“It’d be hard.”

“But it’s possible.”

“Wakanda,” Dick recalls outloud. “What is that? A language? A code word?”

_“A ghost story. A legend. The locals might know more but they’re something of a myth—ghost warriors. An ancient people, a tribe that worshipped a Panther god, wiped out by a meteor. No survivors.”_

“That’s one hell of a horror story.”

“You sure this chick’s last name isn’t _Lane?”_

A dry chortle erupts over the line and not even Dick can hold down his smirk.

“We should be coming up on any debris now. Was he coming in fast?” Jason asks, sobering up.

_“Two hundred miles per hour at less than five thousand feet.”_

“Then we’ve got a hike to the debris field.” Jason stands, slaps a hand on his shoulder. “Close the line. Time to gear up.”

He lets the man disappear into the bay before tapping the silent line, sending the call to his comm. Babs voice feels heavy in his ear. _“How is he?”_ And she sounds a lot more anxious than she’d ever admit, concern leaking all over her words.

“Worse than he says,” Dick replies lowly, keeping himself turned halfway lest Jason charge back in with less than friendly intent. The aircraft’s speed lowers in the beginning stages of automatic landing. “Symptoms aren’t any better. He needs a doctor.”

He can almost hear the thumbnail grinding between her teeth. _“Fever?”_

“Yeah. Nightmares, shakes, looks like it’s gone down for now.” She sighs torturedly. “I know, Batgirl. I know.” He’d give anything to be back in the manor right now, curled up next to her trying to piece themselves back together. Back in the field, out for blood, it’s all too soon. He just wants rest. “How’s the little guy doing?”

Babs scoffs. _“Horrible. I don’t know how to do this without you.”_ He closes his eyes against the guilt and she pauses. _“He’s not eating. He skipped school this morning.”_

The most horrible feeling washes over him and only gets worse with each word out of his mouth. “You can’t let him. Don’t let him blame himself.”

Her snap is unexpected. _“Blame himself?”_ she barks plainly. _“Kind of hypocritical, don’t you think? When everyone is blaming themselves—you, Jason, Alfred, Bruce—hell—me.”_

He doesn’t even reprimand her for breaking Rule 1.

“I know, Babs.”

He does.

_“Just… just figure this out, okay.”_

It’s a lot to ask, she knows. Maybe that’s why she asks it.

He doesn’t say anything, just lets the landing procedures take over, lets the line go quiet while finally stalking into the bay.

His face twists, reaching out for a handhold when the ship rocks. “You really think you’re going to need those?”

Jason looks over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow and slides the mag until it settles with a sharp click. “We’re not in Gotham anymore,” he says blandly and honestly, Dick is surprised he even bothered to answer. “If you wanna get jumped by lions or whatever, I’m not sure _poking them_ is going to do much.”

He frowns, reaching past to grab his go bag. “Neither is a .45. And I’m sure that _lions_ aren’t what your worried about.”

He keeps their gaze locked, aqua on cerulean blue. There’s humor there, not quite as dry as before but still guarded by those same titanium walls. He scoffs through his nose, holstering the weapon against his back under his jacket. It’s a new one, he notices; not quite as heavy, solid black built more like a windbreaker with minimal armor. The sleeves roll into his elbows, pushed past the bruising and lacerations, still dark and red.

Dick tries not to think about it, just turns to strip and pull on his own gear. He feels the gaze heavy on his shoulders long after he’s pulled his shirt over his head.

Jay smirks, thick and cocky when he shoulders his backpack and shoves past him to the ramp, balancing on his toes when the aircraft rocks into it’s landing. He follows him slowly, says nothing when he pulls on his own and waits at his shoulder for the door to drop.

The instant it does, they’re blinded again by the sun, tipped just past its peak toward the horizon.

“Remind me why we put her in charge of the computer,” Jason deadpans when the jets stop roaring. And Dick would respond sooner, maybe with a laugh or at least a chuckle, but the instant he steps out of the bay, his lungs are blasted with a bone-dry heat.

It takes him a full minute to stop wincing at the sun and at that point he can already feel the sweat starting bead on his skin. “Because she can make your life a living hell with one hand and decent wifi.”

Jason scoffs. “I guess we’ve found her limit then.”

It’s far more barren than he’d anticipated. Not in the sense that it looks dead: there’s a lot more green than he’d been expecting too, in the huge, flat-topped trees, and the thick underbrush that no doubt hides a number of snakes, scorpions, probably meerkats—Dick isn’t too familiar with the wildlife.

No, their landing area is rife with flora and the sound of bugs and birds.

And that’s almost the problem.

“These are the coordinates she gave us,” he says, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Jason’s scoff is thick on his tongue and Dick wonders how he can _breathe_ in this heat. “If only you were as smart as you are pretty.”

_Pretty._

Dick frowns, heat already pushing him towards the unpleasant end of the spectrum. “People don’t just fall off the face of the Earth. Even if the plane isn’t here, he had to have left some kind of trail.”

“The _transponder_ stopped broadcasting at this location. Either he turned it off for no apparent reason or—“ Jay breaks into a coughing fit so sudden and intense that Dick startles, spinning back over his shoulder to catch him in case he doubles over. The worry comes back full force in the face of Jason’s burning cheeks and tearing eyes. He gets a glare anyway.

“You okay?”

He scowls. “Peachy.”

“You’re still fighting infection. If you need Motrin—“

“Some Vicodin and a six-pack would be great.” He turns away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. There’s already sweat beading on his skin, a thick film of slick on his forehead. He glances back when Dick’s furrowed gaze doesn’t lift off of the rattling in his chest. “I’m fine, drop it. You got the map?”

He lets it go but keeps monitoring his mannerisms in the back of his head: he’s favoring his side again, expectedly. He should’ve changed his bandages during the flight but he’d been so caught up between Donna and his anger. And then he’d been to tired…Guilt tears at his stomach. He’d taken time for himself and now Jason is paying for it. Everyone else always end up paying for it. “Yeah, I grabbed all of them,” he says hastily when Jay catches sight of the hesitance on his face. He relaxes when Dick swings his backpack around while stalking back into the cockpit. The AC blasts full force while the ship idles and he sneezes against the temperature change.

“Pull up the GPS satellite imagery.”

“Loading now.” He hesitates, sinking into the pilot’s seat looking down at the evidence stolen from Tim’s apartment before the words finally burst from his lips, entirely ready to strongarm his brother into—at least—taking some painkillers or antibiotics. “Jay, if you need a break—“

“What if he wasn’t even here?”

“What?”

Jay shakes his head, not looking at him. “He’s booked flights to throw people off before. Thinks way too far ahead, too many contingency plans.”

Dick frowns, cocks his head. “Why would he do that?”

He raises an eyebrow and Dick feels stupid. “To keep us from following him.”

“And if he’s in trouble?” he deflects only to have Jason scoff.

“Yeah, heard that one before.” He leans over the maps spread across the console, sliding past certain ones, looking at something Dick can’t see until he points it out. “Those mountains weren’t on his map.”

He pushes forward over Jay’s shoulder. “What?”

He holds one of the maps—topographical, labeled clearly with foliage and elevation of their surroundings—up to the windshield and out to the east horizon, a hazy line interrupted by gray mountains, irregular and sharp, cutting into the gray-blue sky. Tim’s printed, photocopied map shows nothing except the same unbroken pattern of African savannah.

“Give me your phone.”

“Why—hey!” Jay’s hand is in and out of his pocket before he can latch onto his wrist and when he stands, reaching across Jason’s chest to take it back by force, he’s just twisting away, already thumbing past his passcode.

(It’s Dami’s birthday but it’s not like Jason could’ve _known_ that.)

For some reason, his face burns a little hotter.

Jay smirks, glances down at him and drawls long and slow. “Y’know he’d kill you if he found out you had casework on your civ.”

Dick scowls, crossing his arms. “No one would think it’s casework and even if I didn’t bring my phone everywhere, I’ve got countermeasures.”

The look he gets now lingers a lot heavier, rakes across his face much more predatorily. “That right?”

“You’re not the only one who can do things with a keyboard.”

“You don’t know half of it.” He smirks deeper, he thinks, but when he blinks the heat in his cheeks away, it’s gone.

“We’re only a few degrees off this mark,” he redirects, narrowing his eyes. If Jay thinks that he’s an easy target to break, he’s got another thing coming. Tim’s maps spread under his fingers, lights of the consoles and switchboards shining through printer paper and clear projector sheets alike. “Batgirl’s coordinates were accurate to the second mark but still broader than these.”

He throws down a finger. “Look. No mountains or vegetation.” And he’s right. “Hey, BG, can you uplink us to live satellite imagery of our position?” He peers at them map for a second longer before lifting his head. “Batgirl?”

Dick scowls, checking to make sure his comm has disconnected. “What did you do?”

Jason frowns in response, stepping back. “Nothing, there’s no one on the radio.”

“What the hell?”

“We’re in a blackout zone,” Jason says numbly and Dick just blinks, an uneasy feeling crawling up his spine.

“The hell does that mean?”

“It means Tim was on his own when he went down and so are we.”

 

* * *

 

They decide to wear their gear.

“There’s glass here.” Jason says after what feels like hours walking. The shard crinkle under his feet and Dick trudges over, kicking up the silty dirt behind him. The heat makes the seconds seem like years, makes time slow until it moves like molasses, and it drives drowsiness into his bones like a cat slinking in the sun. But by the look of that sun, it couldn’t have been more than half an hour since they’d started trekking. It doesn’t help that his suit is solid black. Regardless, he’s sweating profusely, and if he’s sweating, Jason has to be miserable—even sleeveless. Those three words are the first he’s said since they’d left the jet that is still barely visible through the waves of heat and the shimmering edge it nestles into the horizon. They’re not the first sounds though.

He’s still panting too heavily for the butterflies in Dick’s stomach to settle, still dragging his heels too often against the ground. He tries not to let the concern seep into his voice too deeply. “A lot?” he asks, wiping his forehead on the back of his hands.

“Enough that I don’t think he got any farther than this.”

Dick squints at the shimmering horizon. The overlays on his lenses scan the landscape, washing it in blue mesh for just a moment. He can see the location of the ship, the coordinates tagged a few miles away. “Look, his maps and the last GPS update we saw didn’t show any settlement for a hundred miles in any direction.”

“Yeah,” Jason scowls, waving his hand, “but where’s the plane, dipshit?”

That much glass: he doesn’t need to be a detective to know it’s from a windshield—more specifically a Wayne windshield. He recognizes the unique way it’s shattered, an advanced polymer compounded by WayneLabs for a safer, more manageable break.

He doesn’t know what the hell he wants that to mean.

Jason stays crouched by the debris while Dick takes to stalking the perimeter of the site. As dry as it is, there won’t be any deep set footprints, maybe overturned sand and drooping brittle grass, but Dick is used to tracking through a city. Honestly, he has no idea what he’s looking for.

Jay pauses, turning away and when he speaks again a few long seconds later, there’s nothing in his voice. Absolutely nothing. “This was stupid.”

It aches in his chest, the worry he’s tired of feeling. He shakes his head. “Jason.”

His head turns on a swivel, snapping in place to put him in his peripherals, enough for the heat of his glare to burn, just barely. “If you say ‘I told you so—“

Yeah. He’s tired. “It wasn’t your fault.”

His mouth must snap shut because he turns away again and adds sharply under his breath. “Don’t.”

“We couldn’t have known that Tim would come out here— _we couldn’t._ Not unless he’d wanted us to know, you know that.”

He growls again, with a heavier edge. “I said, don’t.”

He sighs through his nose. He’s sick of the moping, the groveling. He’d _almost_ rather have a murderous, revenge-seeking Red Hood than… _this._ He takes a step forward to where he’s crouched, ignoring the stiffening in his shoulders. “You can’t keep this stuff bottled up, Jay. You’ll turn out like Bruce.” There’s a think silence that’s only filled with the sound of the wind in the brush, birds in the distant prairie. It rolls around on his tongue long enough to slip out almost unchecked, a mumbling, pathetic excuse of an admission, but honest all the same. “You think I don’t have nightmares?”

Jason scoffs, almost laughing and the most vulgar offense rips through his chest. “Is this really the time—“

“Yes, actually, this is the time. You’ve made your point: we’ve gotta find Tim, and we’ve gotta find Midnight. But you keep going and you’re going to get yourself killed.” He still doesn’t respond, doesn’t react in any way he’d be able to tell so he goes one more, not even exaggerating the disappointment in his voice. “Don't give me that shit about it not mattering, because it does.”

He shifts on his heels. “It doesn’t.”

“You’ve talked about Steph but… You haven’t even acknowledged—”

The reaction is instantaneous this time, like a mouse trap triggered by her name. “Shut up.”

“Jason,” he starts, taking a breath against the anger, the grief all pooling into one very dangerous, very _explosive_ pool of emotions.  “None of us could’ve know that she would—“

“I should’ve,” he snaps.

“How? You were home—“

The responding hiss is instant and with newfound coordination and agility, he spins on his heel and to his full height. The man’s eyes blaze hotter than the fever on his skin and he smells sweet and sick, but this is all him talking—seething. “I was not _home._ Gotham is Bruce’s shithole, not mine. It ain’t yours either. Look what coming back got us.”

He knocks his wrist away, nearly flinching at the heat. It dissolves in his anger, throwing back his own brand of venom that he never seems to run out of with Jason. “We’re Bats, Jay. We’re always gonna come back.”

He scoffs, dark and mean. “I’m an _Outlaw_. We’re a team. Remember those?”

His throat tightens suddenly and he can tell because his nose tilts up. The urge to knock his knuckles into those cascading cheekbones surges violently enough that his clenches his fist. Jason’s head flicks down in acknowledgement and he scoffs again, but it’s softer, backing down with a patronizing sneer—the only way he knows how. Still, he grinds out, “Don’t do that. Talk about things you don’t understand.”

His chin tips back like he’s laughing. He only wishes that he was. “Oh, I understand. The perfect, prodigal son, a real _prince,_ if you don’t look too hard, that broke the princess’s heart because he couldn’t let go of Daddy’s hand.”

Vaguely, he registers that Jason’s pulled out of reach and that they’re just a few steps away from circling each other. The animosity coursing off the both of them is almost as thick as the heat. He mimics Jason’s jibe, knowing that playing coy will drive him up a wall. “Are you trying to push this on me, ‘cause my conscience is clear.”

Jay snarls, hand cutting through the air. The movement definitely jostles his injury but his anger is too concentrated for it to register. “Oh yeah, _crystal,_ I bet. A real _heartthrob._ Un-fucking-resistible. She thought you were pretty solid in the sack. Tell me, did _she_ know that she was just another _fuck_ to you?”

There. That’s his limit. He freezes now, relaxes completely and lets his voice run cold before he realizes that it’s _Bruce_ he’s channeling. “Stop talking,” he warns frostily.

A sardonic laugh escapes the gravel in his throat. “Or you’ll make me regret it? Is that how you feel?”

And Jason is _dangerously_ close to bringing up something he doesn’t want to remember, something they both _swore_ to forget, and the truth is he doesn’t know if he will. If Jason hates him enough to use _that_ against him. It’s a double-edged sword but Dick knows that when someone’s angry enough, it doesn’t really matter.

The words nearly come out before he’s even finished. “Don’t you tell me how I feel. You’re not the only one who loved her.” Because Jason is dangerously close to crossing a line he _really_ shouldn’t.

“Loved her?” It’s that he chooses to zero in on, his eyes probably narrowing dangerously and he takes a very intentional step closer. “Half the time you couldn’t even look her in the eye.”

There’s the rage. It isn’t wild or irrational—it’s very much clear and cold, and the longer Jason talks, the better it feels. “You don’t know anything, Jason.”

But he does and that’s the worst part. Because he was there when Dick broke things off—its half the reason he did it when he did. That, and the power vacuum Bruce’s ‘death’ had left. He knew she’d need the support. It’s why he held off telling Bruce about the Outlaws when he came back, why he accepted it when Roy stopped returning his calls—Rachel too.

God, everyone hated him for it. Everyone except the one person who should’ve.

She’d smiled.

She’d kissed him; five o’clock shadow, crusted eyes and all.

She’d looked at him like _he_ was the one that made the nightmares go away, kept him from falling the fuck apart.

And he still left her.

Jason hisses with cold breath and hate. “You didn’t care about her. You can pretend with me but don’t you dare pretend that you ever gave a shit about her.” His sneer brushes against the shell of his ear, the flat metal of the helmet, and dimly he wonders when the hell he let him get so close. His fingers twitch and his nerves fire messages more mixed than the heat deep in his stomach. But there’s only one message Jason’s sending him, and it’s not the one he’d like to hear in _that_ voice. “She was just another notch on your belt, right? After West and Babs?”

“Shut the hell up!” He lashes out more violently than he should but manages to stop himself before his hands actually make contact with Jason’s chest.

“Hit me!” he snarls and then there’s a fist in his collar, pushing him, _begging him._ “C’mon, you fucking coward, _hit me!”_

Everything’s too warm. His skin is too tight and he thrashes, testing Jason’s grip while he hisses through his teeth because he’s not sure anything louder will make it past his throat. “You’re an asshole, you know that?” He’s said that before.

Jason’s breath hitches just softly enough that if he’d been even an inch farther away, he would’ve missed it. But he doesn’t. He feels it on his cheeks, feels the same thing in his chest and there’s just blue—all he can see. “Heard it before. Doesn’t make me wrong.”

God, it’s like they’re on a fucking merry go-round and they can’t stop. He digs his nails into Jason’s wrist but forgets what he wants to do except growl. “Maybe it is your fault. Is that what you wanna hear? That you couldn’t do anything to save Kori, that it’s your fault that—“ he dares him to go on and he folds, “—that it’s your fault?”

And the words _burn_ so bad he thinks he might start crying before they’re all the way out. He doesn’t. And the anger tumbles over his grief and it feels _amazing._ Jason’s fist finally twists, twitches with anger, “Shut up,” but if this is what he wants then it’s what he’s going to fucking get. Because then maybe they can get off this ride and never look back. Never want to. Need to.

He throws his arms out pulling Jason back in and even under the hood, the glare _hurts._ “You wanna be angry at someone? Shoot someone? I’m right here.”

“Shut up!” he snarls.

Dick just steps close because he’s angry and pissed off and he’s _high_ on it. “Unless you don’t think I’m the one that deserves it.”

_“Shut up!”_

Something cracks.

“What was that?”

And just like that, they’re frozen, anger put on pause, fury on the back burner. The hair on the back of his neck stands up and everything tingles: the breeze on his cheeks, sun in his hair, the fist in his throat.

For a very long moment, everything stills. The wind stops, every sound goes quiet and the world holds her breath.

For a very long moment, it’s peace.

And then it isn’t.

He sees the first blur of motion over Jason’s shoulder, shoves him to the side to block the blade coming down where his neck would have been.

The attacker dips out of his field of vision and there’s a nauseating pinch under his ribcage.

His arms are still tangled with his and he shoots out a kick to catch their side. The escape of breath is quick and controlled. For a second he moves so fast that Dick can’t track him, and then Jason’s there, slamming the butt of his gun into the assailants temple.

They don’t even react.  

Jay’s head snaps with the force of the resulting punch, nearly screams at the crushing force of the kick to his ribs. He barely manages to block the downswing of the katana with the backsides of his gauntlets.

Dick lunges for the exposed backs of their knees. He puts his foot down, reaches forward, and the man pivots back—still pressing Jay down. Dick’s world capsizes, tips upside down and he almost misses the boot coming down on his face.

Jay’s retaliation comes with eyes on fire and a stance with an intent to win. He kicks the man back, knocks a hand into his jaw, and unholsters.

The five shots come in quick succession. He only hears the first.

He thinks it’s shrapnel—bullet fragments that sear his skin when he turns away.

Jay glances at him, so quickly he almost misses it and the panic in his gaze.

The stranger straightens, entirely unscathed by the two headshots and three chest. It doesn’t even look like Jay hit him.

He advances too fast to track, knocks Jason’s punches and kicks away like he’s nothing more than an insolent child. The jabs he delivers are quick, ruthless, and Jay’s mouth open as if to scream but nothing comes out.

He pitches forward, his attacker stepping fluidly to the side.

Dick vaults to his feet but before he can get an actual foothold, there’s another gunshot—Jay’s gun.

He can’t catch himself, his leg won’t work. He’s on his back and the blue is too bright. There's a wetness on his leg but it doesn’t hurt, it just is.

A gloved finger traces the trigger, someone else leans into the scope and all Dick can think about it how he didn’t see them coming.

How the mask only has one eye.

They all reach the same conclusion in the same moment that the adrenaline kicks back, allows them to fully analyze the situation and both sides. His head hits the ground in defeat, a curse barely held back by the backs of his teeth.

His voice shouldn’t echo in this landscape but it almost does anyway. “Shit.”

He knows that voice.

He knows _that_ mask.

_“Slade.”_

_He’d never seen a blade go through anything so smooth, but it makes Bruce’s ribs look like_ butter.

_He actually screams—a sound that should never come out of a man so stoic, so composed and in control. Just like that, he’s a little kid in Haly’s, watching his parent fall. Only somehow, this time, it’s much louder, much worse._

_He’s smaller than Batman—younger too. He looks like a normal person, like any other man you walk past on the street._

_It was the only time he’d ever picked up a gun with the intent to fire. Discarded in the fight, the weapon fit oddly in his small hands, and they shook far too much to be of any use. But still, the man backed away, dropping Batman and staring him down through that two-toned mask._

_“You think you have the balls, kid?” he’d taunted flatly, voice like molasses and radio interference. Tears blurred his vision so violently that he turns into a mass of black and orange, indiscernible from the background._

_He crawls toward Bruce on bloody knees, keeping the gun trained on their assailant. And Bruce is grabbing him, uncoordinated, but stronger than steel. The hand clamps around his wrist, dwarfing it like it always does and he’s coughing._

_“Don’t.”_

_And he didn’t._

Mercenary, murderer, traitor: there’s no question to what _Slade Wilson_ is. He steps forward and the men part wordlessly for him—always a sea of blood and bodies. He’s got a killcount in the _hundreds,_ and why the League hasn’t dealt with him for good, he’ll never know.

Nothing’s changed since the last he saw him: katana dripping with Jericho’s blood. Rose, sobbing into his shirt on the floor of his apartment, tears streaming from her remaining eye. Deathstroke’s deadly gaze has followed him since the beginning, since he first crossed paths with the Bat.

Something had sparked then. Something primal, feral.

Because here in front of them, a thousand miles from home, is one of the only people on Earth that can beat Batman to a standstill.

He makes Jason look like a fucking golden retriever.

“Now I know why this all _smells,”_ Jay sneers. “How’s Rose? Adeline? _Jericho?”_

Panic surges in his throat but Slade just tips his head. It’s that casual dismissal, the silent condescension that threw him off from the beginning. Because he never reacts the way you want him to. Everything is a game, a hunt, a test—all at once.

He just sounds disappointed. “You always talked too much, kid.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” he croaks, hating the way his voice comes out dry with dread.

“I could ask you the same thing.” he returns dryly.

“Making friends with the locals?” Jason spits viciously. He and Slade have a history just as heated—from spearheading Titan operations when he was in charge, to teaching him all styles of deadly mixed martial arts in his near-catatonic state post Lazarus. Jay has just as much of a reason to detest Slade as he does.

He doesn’t need to feed off Jason’s hostile reaction—he has his own when Slade tips his head and drawls in a voice so level and even that it seems to slip off his tongue. “Not all of us can live off of Daddy’s paycheck.”

“Slade,” he growls, begging the feeling in his fingers to come back. It won’t be long—a few minutes at most, but he can see Jay smothering his panic and pain while he lays helpless, face-down in the dirt.

It’s not a bullet wound and it’s not blood. It's pins-and needles, some nerve-pressure point shit that stops him from moving. And it’s terrifying. And new. Deathstroke is well-versed in almost every style of martial arts there is, but never has he been _enhanced._ The speed, the strength, the _bulletproof-ness—_ that’s new.

The mercenary leans close, blocking the sun until he’s just a dark mass in Dick’s vision. He doesn’t feel the weight on his hand, but he does feel the razor edge of a knife on his throat. He hums, “You know, a little bird told me I should be expecting you. There’s news of a dead bat in Gotham.” The anger surges full force, enough that when he grits his teeth and swallows, the blade digs deep enough to pinch. He taps it against his Adam’s Apple, mocking intense concentration. “It couldn’t have been the kid; he’s too _stubborn_ to die.” His jaw hurts, he’s clenching it so hard. The knife taps his nose.  “Not Batgirl—would’ve been a waste of bullets.” He closes his eyes. It taps his forehead. “Where there’s one bat, there’s three, which leaves…”

He feels it when it digs in between the plates of armor, right into the fold of his arm and shoulder and he can’t contain the guttural groan of agony when it rocks into his skin and carves. “ _Blondie.”_

Jason audibly seethes, spittle in his teeth while he stares at Dick through Slade’s crouched silhouette. His eyes blaze with more than fever. “I’ll kill you.”

And Slade turns over his shoulder to put Jason in his stoic glare. He wants to reach up and grab him, tell him to look _here,_ not at Jay. But before anyone can do anything else, there are footsteps that he _can_ hear coming, and Slade looks up. “Looks like it's your lucky day.”

The shout comes from past his peripherals, past the shrubbery and rocks but the footfalls are heavy, not bothering to step around obstacles, plowing right through instead. He can’t see but Jay can.

He blinks seven times. _Seven hostiles._

Someone calls, a rough sound with a heavy accent placed somewhere in the Adriatic Sea. “Hey, Wilson! Don’t nobody want your sloppy seconds. Leave the pretty one for the rest of us, ay?” He can heat the resounding jeers from other men; a pack of wolves stumbling across a flockless sheep.

“Keep your hands off him, jackass,” Jason spits. His eyes are like fire, even when the shadow crosses his face and his view is blocked by another man; another operative with a kind, weathered face and a wicked grin.

The rage pulses deep when Jay’s growl is cut off, no doubt by the hand that reaches under his jaw to purse his lips together while he chokes. “This one’s got a mouth on ‘im.”

This time it’s Slade that bristles, unholsters the Sig Sauer on his thigh with one gloved hand. “Fuck off. My catch. My kill.”

There’s a scoff but the figure stands. “You’re no fun.”

Slade looks down at him again, pressing the thick barrel to his forehead. It’s warm and ice cold at the same time. It’s terror. “Don’t do this.”

“Wilson.”

His accent is clean, almost unplaceable. It’s barely muffled by the fabric covering his mouth.

Someone behind them hisses and he feels Jason bristle. It’s shattered English, spoken by a tongue not familiar to him in its unique pitch variation and hum.

“Easy,” someone coaxes—a British voice, odd and displaced just like all the others within the group.

He’s weathered like the others: old money operatives who left behind the pride and nationalism of service for the far more glamorous and rewarding lifestyle of a merc. He’s surprisingly casual; baseball cap on over tac-glasses with a face shield down around his neck. He looks just as intimidating as the others, but he has something they don’t—not even Slade: _power._ “We don’t get many visitors around here.” His smile is easy, disconcerting and even Slade backs away when he nods. His head cocks and then jerks towards him again. “Certainly not your kind.”

A memory tickles before it clicks. He looks him straight in the eye when he speaks. “Red Robin was here a couple days ago. We just want him back.”

His glare is just cool as ice, not a hint of anger in those brown eyes. If anything, it’s mischievous. “There’s nothing out here but trouble,” he drawls. An eyebrow raises. “Your friend is surely dead. Heroes don’t last long out here.”

“Apparently, neither do loyalties,” Jason coughs, finally sitting up. His eyes squint against the light and pain, hair mussed and matted all at once with sweat. “Isn’t that right, Barksdale?”

_The name?_

_Zachary Barksdale. Ass._

“Zachary Barksdale,” Dick echoes numbly. His head is still stuffed thick with dizziness but its flattened when the gaze turns on him. “Security escort for Blaccard’s excavation team.” The details of Tim’s investigation pours into his mind, rolling right off his tongue even as Slade’s gun presses cold to the back of his neck. “We know all about you.”

He doesn’t like the way his eyes light up when he says that, the way his chin tips and he starts to look at them like he’s hungry.

But he doesn’t reply. Not to them. “Wilson,” he prompts, arms crossed. “You know these two?”

 _This is it._ Cover blown. Mercenaries have known Bruce’s name before. Have known his and Jason’s and the rest of the family’s. But they’re out of cards here. Completely out of the game. _Checkmate._

“They’re with the Batman,” Slade says smoothly, pinching his neck just a bit tighter.

Barksdale’s eyebrow lifts. “The _Batman.”_ Now his grin is wide and he saunters forward, crouching in front of Jason who snarls. He leans forward with all teeth, looking Jay up and down. His hands are bound so he can’t fight back or move when Barksdale peels back the armor from his wound. Jay thrashes and bucks but another operative holds him down for Barksdale to peer closer at the cause of his agony. “Christ.” His face twists and even then, there’s a ghostly smirk. “He knows this one’s defective, right?”

Protectiveness surges, rockets through the roof and Slade _has_ to notice because under his breath he makes a _tsk_ sound, warning him. He doesn’t know why either of them give a fuck. The last time he’d seen Slade was after he’d confronted him about Rose, all those years ago. Since then their relationship has only worsened, but for some reason, Slade gives a shit. And for some reason, so does he.

“Pretty, no?” someone jeers and it only elicits another round of quiet chuckles. Barksdale smiles, pats Jay’s jaw with a heavy, paw-like hand. The red that flushes his cheeks isn’t all from fever and heat. Rage tinges his vision red with every finger they lay on him and when Barksdale glances over, he just smiles even more.

He stands with a sigh, dusting his knees off. “Batman has no business here.”

“That’s why you’re hiring mercenaries as private military?” Jason sneers.

He smiles again. “I’m not the one in charge, sweetheart.” He turns as if to walk away. “You know the rules, boys. No prisoners.”

 _No._ This isn’t right.

Jason shouts when a boot strikes the side of his face and then Slade is manhandling him into the ground. If he hadn’t been blindsided by Barksdale’s words or pinned by the muzzle in his neck, he’d fight back. But Slade shoves his face into the dirt, holds him there with the gun on his temple. “Nothing personal, kid.”

It’s a shot in the dark, it’s stupid and desperate and it goes against everything Bruce has taught him. But it's him.

“What if I think you’re lying?”

He _swears_ it gets twenty degrees colder.

It sounds like he smiles, turning back on his heels. Dick spits the dirt he keeps breathing out of his mouth. “You kill me, you kill us—that’s the whole League on your back. And they won’t come quietly.” He takes a breath that shudders—not from the weight on his torso. “Wakanda won’t be a secret, and it won’t survive this time.”

 _There._ It hits a nerve. A heavy one. His eyes darken and he turns fully.

“You think you’re worth that much,” he asks, but it’s not a question. “You’d bet your life on that?”

“I’d bet a thousand.”

He’s not smiling anymore.

They move to a command that he’s too shocked to catch. Instead, it’s Jason’s abrupt cry of pain when one of the men slams the end of a staff into his side and he goes down. “Get off him!” He surges forward, catches the first punch they throw but not the one that clips the side of his head. His vision pulses black and he can hear the blood in his ears for a moment too long. There’s sand in his mouth when he can focus again, feel the hands gripping him too hard, the sack they’re shoving his head into.

The last glimpse he gets is of Jason, limp between two of the warriors and the adrenaline rushes into his veins with a renewed vigor.

One of his captors shouts when he throws his head back into their nose, pivoting on one foot and driving the other into his gut. His hands are bound tight to his back and he can’t see past the broken shafts of light and color, but he can hear the commotion he causes. He manages to sidestep the one that charges him, turn around and deliver a staggering spin kick. Something crunches against his heel and when he brings it back again, there’s a scream to go with it.

He starts to duck away from the next attack but it comes from behind.

An arm and a blade to his neck. A gun to his head and he stops breathing.

He stops cold but the words still come, even with his throat bared against certain death. There’s a hand in his hair, forcing him to look up while his knees dig into the ground. “You know what kind of list this puts you on,” he rasps angrily. Jay still hasn’t moved. “You know I’m right, and I am asking nicely.” It pinches his skin and his eyes squeeze before he can meet that glare again. “He won’t.”

Slade only _appears_ to consider. Dick knows better.

“You’ve already fucked up. Don’t try it, kid.”

The adrenaline-hung side of his brain calculates how fast he’d have to move to throw him off. Slade may be stronger but he’s a hell of a lot quicker. An elbow to the gut, twist out of reach, it’d only take a second.

He’s strong-armed to the ground, until his cheek is in the dust and Slade’s knee is in his back.

Jason hasn’t moved.

For a long tortured moment, unadulterated panic tears at his throat. His head swims while they disorient him, tear away his every sense. It’s primitive, it’s cruel, and it works.

It’s also everything Bruce trained them for.

They strip them of their weapons and for the first time, they actually get them all. Slade catches all the tricks, all the things they should’ve missed and he hates him all the more for it. They take the belt, escrima, all the weapons he’s hidden in his boots—they don’t miss a damn thing. And when they get to his mask, he almost blows it, almost says _fuck it,_ and fights back.

He lets them rip off the domino, draws blood biting his lip when they jeer at the skin it takes. Draws even more when they shove his head in a bag.

Breathing is hard through what he thinks is burlap, but it allows him to suck in shallow gulps of dry desert air. _You’ll get through this. Just do what they say. Get Jason safe. Find Tim. Find answers…_

It’s a long time before they slow their pace—at least eight miles by his count. Slade’s presence never leaves his back, placed slightly to the right with Barksdale roughly at his eleven o’clock. His mouth burns, tongue dry. He tries to locate Jason through the blindfold but his head is so thick with dehydration he can’t pinpoint the man’s heavier gait, just the soft steps and occasional scuff of the Wakandans. The sound of cicadas slowly making way to the music of civilization. He hears talking, laughing, whispering, and the guard pulls closer, herding him along.

Someone trips.

“Hood?” It doesn’t even occur to him that using his title may be far more damaging than any other alias—real or fake—but and anxiety twists so tight he doesn’t really care. He tries to turn his head, to shake the blindfold off when a hand comes down around his neck, shoving him forward.

 _“Walk,”_ the voice hisses hot on the shell of his ear. He stops the jerk reaction to slip out of the binds and fight his way through but instinct drags him back. _Wait._

The boot connects with the back of his knee and with a shout, he goes down. There are whispers around him that aren’t from the men; they’re too curious, too wary. Even without his sight, his spatial awareness is commendable—even in the realm of metas and other supers—and his senses start to build a picture around him.

There’s a new dampness to the air, one that’s thick with static and moisture. The sun burns full force onto his skin, blinding even through the sack over his head: sunset. There are shapes surrounding them, some tall and blocky, some short and moving. The ground under his knees is soft, sandy, no more shrubs or rocks to trip over.

When he stands he knows where they are.

One of the men barks something sharp and threatening in a language he can’t decipher and there’s a sudden commotion. _“Move, kid.”_

They snap at his heels with a terrified anger that bleeds over into his own, shoving him forward by his shoulders, a dragging sound behind them that only makes his gut turn over more.

The deeper they go, the louder the whispers get—and they too are unfamiliar in dialect. The words are short and clipped with little clicks and snaps that go over his head. He knows what they’re talking about. His back straightens a little more.

They stop then, turning abruptly until a shadow comes over his head. When the sack is finally yanked off and he’s shoved forward for the last time, he stumbles. Even dim, the light makes his eyes water. He gathers enough to recognize a small room made of concrete and wood, empty, windowless, obviously only made with one purpose in mind.

He whips around to confront them only to be met with the barrel of the same weapon that digs into his knee. Slade blinks at him while he strains, bites back the whimper until he holds his hands up, swallows his pride, and backs up to the wall. He expects them to shackle him, to bind him even more. Instead, the blade nips his skin before he can twist the guards arm over itself, and pulls on the threads of rope searing rashes and gouges into his flesh.

He turns slowly this time, letting smaller hands pull the ropes from his own. This is a different guard.

Her eyes are hazel, bright compared to her dark rosy cheeks and complexion. But she doesn’t look at him like the others do; with hate and spite. No, her fingers are soft.

When they throw Jason in, nothing stops his fall. He screams when he does, wheezing and gasping. He can’t remember the last time he saw tears on Jay’s face, but he doesn’t think they’re voluntary.

“Stay,” comes the order from Slade himself and if he’d lingered, Dick would’ve charged him. But he just turns away and doesn’t look back.

He immediately crawls over to Jason, slumped on his side and breathing hard. Stripped of their gear, he already knows that he’s going to have to improvise. Jason’s face is flushed, eyes unfocused in a way that sends alarm bells through his head. “You okay?”

The response takes too long. Too slow. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Sure. Come here.” He doesn’t move and Dick doesn’t know if it’s because he can’t or if he’s just that stubborn.

“I’m fine—“ But Dick is already pulling off the vigilante’s body armor and pulling up his shirt. He can feel the heat before he even reveals the wound. “Jesus. Why didn’t you say anything?” The worst injury from the explosion snarls up at him from where it curls over his side and across part of his pectoral muscle. The trek tore the stitches, some of them clean through the inflamed skin, only more irritated now from rubbing against his vest. The ragged edges nearly sears the soaked fabric, shirt soiled through with pus and blood. Even before his eyes, the tear leaks pitifully, weeping harder with every labored breath Jason forces from his body.

“Couldn’t really ask for a potty break, could I?” He tries to sit up again and all Dick has to do is ease a palm onto his skin. He blinks blearily, turning his head around. “Where’s Slade?”

“I don’t know. You lost a lot of blood, Jay.” He pants, a thick sound in his chest before his eyes focus and unfocus unevenly. He can’t hold his hands back, fluttering over the worst of the reopened wounds and back. _Alfred was right. Definitely sepsis._ And out here, they’re too far away from help to get Jason the medical attention he needs. “Dammit, you should’ve stayed in Gotham.”

His responding growl is wet and angry. “Fuck you.” He surges up but its so uncoordinated that he falls back without much problem. Hit stomach twists even more.

“This is my fault. I should’ve benched you.”

“Like hell it's your fault.”

Dick shakes his head. “I’m calling it off. You’re going home when we get out of here.”

This time his hand is heavy, a big pressure on his arm and then he’s being dragged closer. Jay’s breath is a sickly heat on his cheeks and his eyes are unnaturally bright. For a second, Dick isn’t entirely sure what exactly is bringing the heat to his face. It surely isn’t the terrifyingly weak snarl. “If I go home then Steph died for nothing.”

He sees it then, half hidden under Jay’s hip, clutched in one bloody hand: a pistol. Slade’s.

He can say what he wants about Jay, but there’s no doubt that he’s crafty as all hell.

“How the hell did you get that?” he hisses, ducking his head.

“Does it fucking matter?” Jay snarls thickly.

He opens his mouth to respond but the words never get the chance to come out.

“Nightwing and Red Hood. He told me you might come.”

The owner of the reverberating timbre looms in the shadows behind them, materializing out of the orange sunset with a silence Dick only knows only a handful of people are capable of recreating. A shiver travels down his spine before his can stop himself and he adds this man to that list.

“Don’t worry about,” he makes a vague motion to the face while he stalks forward slowly, sauntering, prowling. “I don’t have any use for that nature of information.”

He doesn’t remember situating himself in front of Jason, pushing himself to his knees and in between him and the newcomer: a tall, broad-chested man with midnight tattoos and a hostile amber glare. “Who are you?”

He’s built like Lanterns are: lean, tall. The aura that surrounds him is dark and murky too, unclear in intent and sincerity. It throws him for a loop but Bruce prepared them for everything.

“Ojore.” He doesn’t move when he speaks, doesn’t give any inclination of a response outside of the words he speaks.

He hates how everything anyone ever does reminds him of Bruce, but here he is anyway, trying not to flatten his ears and duck his head.

He knows Jason feels it too but he’s always been much better at hiding it. “Well, I wish that meant literally anything,” he snarls, unknowingly proving his point.

The stranger casts him a pitiful glance and it only raises the hair on his neck. His voice is thick and sharp with authority and against his will, his spine straightens. His fingers twitch for a weapon— _anything._

“This is Wakanda,” Dick breathes. The look he’s fixed with is millennia too old. There’s a bulletproof vest on his chest, a tattered scarf around his neck. The dark tribal tattoos on his skin crawl up his neck is swaths and bands so thick that they could be slashes. They curl up his skull and up the center of his scalp before tapering into three neat points.

And they aren’t what he’d expected to see from an ancient civilization with more myth than fact. No, they’re heavily armed, up-to-date tech, state-of-the-art defenses.

“It used to be,” he says finally. It carries the same grain and gravel that Bruce’s does when he’s in a _mood._

There are dog tags in his shoes, a pistol on his hip, watch on his wrist.

“You’ve hired private military,” he exhales. This is _bad._ The man tips his head neglecting to confirm or deny the claim. “You’re supposed to by a myth.”

“So are you,” he returns smoothly. He steps forward until he’s within reach, teasing him—daring him to make his move. When he doesn’t, he crouched. “Why are the Bats so far from home?”

Jason grunts behind him, trying to sit up while his groans slip through his teeth. “Where the fuck is Red Robin?”

Ojore’s eyes slip once from his to Jay’s, almost amused.

“And where did you get those weapons?”

Because he recognizes them. From a case way back in his memory—an arms smuggling ring he’d crashed with deep pockets and steep prices. This isn’t normal weaponry, it’s state-of-the-art, cutting edge.

But this, the tachyon energy, the metahumans, Slade—none of it adds up.

“My men chose to spare you,” he rumbles timelessly. “I would be grateful for our hospitality. It doesn’t happen often, I can assure you.”

“Those aren’t your _men,”_ Jason seethes, eyes narrowed viciously. “Those are mercenaries you’re _paying for._ They aren’t loyal or hospitable—they’re _monsters.”_

“And you, Red Hood?”

Jason freezes when Ojore returns softly.

“You’ve been called a terrorist, a monster, a menace to society. The walls of the most esteemed households, to the most barren of rooms have heard tales of the abomination with a heart of lead and steel. There’s no redemption for you.”

Jason’s eyes boil.

Dick shakes his head. “I don’t understand. Wakanda is a myth.”

Ojore raises a thick eyebrow. “So is Batman.”

Jason’s hand is on his ankle, then his knee, and then he’s pulling himself up to his full height, surging up on unsteady feet.

He extends the gun in one perfectly balanced arm and Dick curses him in every language he knows. “Where is Red Robin?” and his voice is so even that he can pretend that Jason isn’t as dangerously close to organ failure as he very well could be. He bites his tongue.

Ojore is perfectly calm. “I don’t know,” he says in the same guarded melodic deadpan. Even without emotion, he manages to sound every bit as menacing as he looks, with a nearly glowing, daring glare, and a warning glint in his eyes.

Jason adjusts his grip, the side of his mouth pivoting deep. “Tell me where he is. Or I will blow your _goddamn_ head off.”

This time he squints, Dick’s heart leaping to his throat. He has to consciously stop himself from pouncing on Jay and forcing him to heel. “You won’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

His eyes flash. “If you pull that trigger, my _mercenaries_ will kill you in an instant. There with be no hope for your friend, for Red Robin, and none for the Knight when he arrives to avenge you.”

Jason thumbs back the hammer. “Lucky for you, I don’t need it.”

It’s like a train hits him: the instant Ojore buries a hand in his throat and tosses him like a rag doll against the far wall. The solid concrete grinds against his bones on impact, driving a sickening pain and nausea into his chest so abruptly that the first thing he does is gag. In his peripherals he sees Ojore closing the distance between him and Jay.

He can’t hear anything when Jason fires, mouth twisted when the muzzle flashes past Ojore’s arm and he falls. Instead, his foot comes down on Jay’s femur.

He can hear it crack.

He can hear Jason shriek when Ojore just snaps his leg like a fucking pretzel.

The crunch promises to haunt his nightmares for years.

“Stop!” He runs weakly at their captor, puts himself in between them.

This time he snaps with an authority they've both heard before. “History has not been kind to my people but we will not be underestimated by children.”

The warning isn’t without weight, because every word he says is drenched in truth. Wakanda is a stranger to history around the globe, a blank chapter in textbooks, a missing statistic in an outdated encyclopedia.

They very well could disappear here, become a needle in the nonexistent haystack they’d stumbled upon.

They’ve come across places like this before: Themyscira, Atlantis—but Wakanda is different. They don’t care about hospitality, or diplomacy. They care about survival. About preservation.

And he doesn’t doubt what they’ve done in the past to protect it.

He finally folds and shows his belly, holding out a hand that he hopes is appeasing enough to the man while he glares down. He begs him silently to break Jason’s challenge, to meet his own pleading gaze instead. “Ojore… he didn’t mean it. Please.”

His eyes slide over almost begrudgingly and he stares down his nose. “Colonists don’t mean a lot of things.”

He takes a breath, edges in between the bristling men. His palms face them: one to Ojore, the other behind his back, pressing into the heat of Jason’s skin. “What happened to Red Robin? We know he was here and that’s all we want to know. Then we’ll leave. I swear.” He raises his eyes then, not even ashamed when he tacks on his breathless _“Please.”_

Ojore blinks for a very long moment and too long passes by that Dick dreads his worst fears will be confirmed. “He is gone. Accept that.”

This is it, this is the end of the path they’d chosen, the end of the trail Tim left them. And they’re left with more questions than answers, more enemies than allies, and more alone than when they began. It’s defeat that stings his throat, the last vestiges of hope finally slipping through his limp fingers.

If Ojore is sympathetic in any way, he doesn’t express it in a way Dick understands. The dry tone of his voice carries more disdain than warmth and at this point, he’d settle for plain old pity. It seems there’s none to spare. “You’ll stay here until morning. At dawn my men will return you to your plane and you will leave. Wakanda has no business with the Dark Knight or the Justice League.”

Jason’s words spill out incoherently, but slathered in hostility all the same, leaning his head heavily on Dick’s leg, nearly sobbing. At this point, Dick isn’t even sure if he’s entirely aware of the situation, delirious with fever and pain. “You—“

“Thank you,” he stammers before Jason can condemn them further.

Ojore regards them with one last long look. “I am sorry for your loss, Nightwing. May the spirits guide you.”

And he’s gone.

He doesn’t know why he moves, where he even finds the energy, but he’s grabbing Jay before he can fall again and grips him like a fucking lifeline. He’s fully shivering, barely responsive, but apparently livid enough to hate him

“You coward—“ he spits before it comes up red, slipping over his lips.

Not good. Very not good. There isn’t any time to reprimand him about his self-destructive tendencies and lack of self-preservation. If he doesn’t do something _now,_ Jason will die.

He just doesn’t know that to do.

“Jason, how bad are you? How long were you hiding this?” he demands, pulling his shirt up to reveal the day and a half old gash in his side, now reopened, bleeding heavily and weeping with pus and heat. The discharge slicks his whole side, makes his shirt cling to his skin. He can see the blood streaking under his skin, sees the shaking before he feels how his bones are rattling in his body, how his heart is pumping far too hard and fast to simply be keeping him breathing.

Jay reaches out an uncoordinated first that begins as a punch but ends up wrapped around his wrist and not letting go.

“I’m trying to do what we came here to—“ he slurs. He doesn’t finish before he’s pitching forward on his arms.

Jason is heavy even when he’s trying not to be, but now, his deadweight is nearly crushing. “Hey. Hey, Hood? Wait!”

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

_Check his pulse._

He presses his fingers under Jay’s jaw and waits with his heart in his chest. _There._ Weak, but there.

_Breathing._

Too wet, not strong enough.

_Shock will kill him. Keep him warm._

“Ok, ok, hold on, Jay.”

A snapshot canvas of the room lends him a multitude of information: the most pressing being the figure in the darkest corner.

His chest constricts, throat tightening and clamping down. There’s blood on his hands and it should be warm when it turns to ice, just like the one in his veins.

“Slade.”

“Grayson,” sounds condescendingly from the dark. For a moment, all he can see is a shy glint of something that could be brown or orange until he’s taking a step forward, pulling the mask off as he goes. Not much changes and not much _has_ changed; he’s still the same gruff, gray-haired assassin from before. Same piercing eye, same gory score down the opposite side. Same stick up his egotistical ass that might just be the training from his military days, straight-cut and loyal. Forgotten days. He sneers and Dick knows that while Slade doesn’t smoke, he’s desperate for something of that nature to occupy his mouth while he taunts him. “It was a nice bluff. _Stupid,_ though.”

Anger pours thick in his blood. “I didn’t see you offering another option.”

He doesn’t say another word about it and Dick can’t tell if he’s just finding something to hold over him or if he actually gives a fuck. He cares about people—Dick knows that. He’d seen the anger first hand when Grant was killed, when Joseph went postal and Rose turned her back on him. Slade’s complicated—and that’s an understatement. With him, it’s always much easier if they’re just trying to kill each other. He sighs and it’s not mocking or taunting. It’s just that: a sigh. “You shouldn’t have come here, kid.”

His arms cross while Dick’s shake, so slick with Jason’s blood that they slip against his skin. He doesn’t know what he’s doing—trying to stop the bleeding—maybe he should administer rescue breathing—CPR would kill him. “I don’t have time for your mind games. He is _dying—“_ His voice cracks before Slade is cutting him off with a low growl.

“For once, shut your mouth and listen.” His words snap meanly and curtly, enough that Dick’s mouth snaps shut abruptly. He stalks closer, purpose in his steps now and his voice takes on a quality that outright forbids a smart-ass retort. “You’re out of your depth here. Take what he’s offering and _leave.”_

Slade’s good. He’s the best assassin—probably in the world. If not, then he’s one of them. What makes him the best, the most dangerous and deadly, is that he knows his enemies.  He’s a stalker, a sniper; he learns the patterns and exploits them.

He doesn’t back down or give up, doesn’t care if other people do. He’s just not capable of it. But this—this borders on _concern._

“I’m not leaving without Tim.”

Slade’s mouth straightens into a downward slope of forced indifference. “Then you’ll join him.”

His heart points in his chest until it’s the only thing he can hear. “Is he dead?” He can barely say it, it shakes on his tongue. It trembles, falling flat on the tears in his throat. “Tell me. Now.”

Because if Tim is dead then there’s no hope for any of them. And Dick can’t stomach the thought of the last words he’d said to Tim being stuck in his mind during his last moments. Not his, or Damian’s, or Bruce’s. He had every reason to drop them and not look back.

The guilt burns his eyes, like a chemical weapon, tearing the truth from him, word by word. He tries not to let them fall, escape the hold of his lashes but a few do anyway, and he just prays that Slade doesn’t see. That he doesn’t think any less of him.

He seems to let it sink in, marinate in his gaze his to make him squirm and he feels like he’s going to explode. He has to see the tears slipping past his cheeks and looks away, only looking slightly uncomfortable. “I don’t know,” he relents finally, something reminiscent of resignation in his voice. He turns to start pacing when he grunts the next part. “He didn’t tell me that part.”

“What are you talking about?” he croaks.

Slade scoffs. “Red must’ve been in some deep shit if he didn’t tell you. Unless he’s still giving you the cold shoulder.” He read the tension in his shoulders like words on a page. “Ouch.”

This time he can’t help but snarl, bite out a hateful warning. “Slade.”

“He collected a favor. A mutual interest, but a favor. Infiltrate Wakanda. Protect a local.”

“A local,” Dick repeats. Jason’s so still under his hands, blood still warm and chest still fluttering. He needs a doctor. Medicine. And like always, it’s nothing Dick can give him. The urge to double over is near unbearable, to bury his face in Jay’s hair and sob. His hands shake in his effort to hold himself together, but neither of them are going to last much longer.

“A true Wakandan,” Slade reiterates gruffly. “Ojore and Barksdale are running an arms manufacturing ring using the resources in the mountain. Call it vibranium.”

“Vibranium.”

He nods. “Virtually indestructible. Works like magic.” He crosses his arms, continuing to pace slowly, intentionally. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck like he’s prowling. “The tribe is afraid of it—they call it voodoo, they never go in the mines willingly.”

“Who’s the local?” Dick asks. “Why are they important?”

Slade shrugs, pauses for a moment. “You’d have to ask Drake.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?” he croaks.

“Three days ago. He and the Wakandan went in. He didn’t come out.” Slade watches his face carefully and Dick puts all his focus into not letting it show. Obviously, it fails and the assassin sighs, stops walking and almost looks uncomfortable. “As much as I hate to say this, Grayson—Drake’s a smart kid. A hell of a lot smarter than the rest of you.” It's all he needs and intends to say. He casts a forlorn, nearly disgusted look to the fallen vigilante between them. “Jason, on the other hand. He’s not going to make it through the night.”

His next words fall flat. “What happened to him?”

He hesitates before answering, looking away. “Same thing that killed Spoiler, Kori, and Conner. Proxima Midnight.”

Slade sighs through his nose and he doesn’t know what it means.

The words pour out before he can stop them—if he does, they’ll come out as tears. Jason’s breath only grows shallower. They’re both out of time and he’s got to make a sacrifice. He swallows his pride and fear and his voice is steadier than it's ever been. “Slade, this is bigger than us. Bigger than everyone. I know you’re not the hero type—you’re not in it for the glory—she’s got Lantern on his deathbed, tore up Atlantis, Themyscira, Central, Star—I need your help.”

He scoffs, mean and dry this time. “Seems like a recurring theme with you boys.”

“Please.”

There’s a lot packed in that one word. Because they all have history—and that’s the _problem._ He doesn’t _want_ to hate Slade, doesn’t _want_ them to keep falling into the pattern of “I’m gonna kill you,” “you’re gonna kill me.” He doesn’t want to hate anyone but the universe is so intent on putting them against each other.

Finally, he says something—breaks the silent judgement and twisted mix of sympathy and pity on his face. His voice comes out like nails on a chalkboard. “It’s going to cost you.”

“Anything,” he blurts. He goes to take it back but he can’t. He means it. But Slade doesn’t laugh at him, doesn’t make fun of the tears in his eyes and the red in his cheeks that no _brother—_ adoptive or otherwise—should ever harbor for another. At the same time, all the past two days have done for him, is make him wonder if they ever really were.

He hangs his head before his ego forces his chin to raise with confidence—real or fake, he doesn’t know. “What do you want?”

Slade is silent, a shadow when he steps into the dying light and crouched on Jason’s other side. The eye he rakes down his battered body is clinical at first glance—then with something he can’t discern. He wonders if he sees Grant. If he sees Rose.

Then he looks up, eye sure and intense. There’s something in his hand, balanced between two thick fingers: full and pink with a ghostly blue hue.

A fruit.

“How much is his life worth to you?”

And if that isn’t the million dollar question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys! Aero-engineering is hard, and on top of classic writer’s block...  
> It’s not the chapter ya’ll deserve for waiting so long. Sorry!
> 
> Next chapter is our long awaited fight! Here’s a SAMPLER:
> 
> “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I don’t take walk-ins.”
> 
> “Stark.” She’s gorgeous in the unnatural, ethereal way that some people just are. She exudes power. There’s nothing in her amber eyes that combats the unadulterated confidence. “I hope you throw better punches than you do parties.” The shield is chilling and her sword is wicked sharp.
> 
> Through the HUD, he sees her playful smirk. He returns his own. “Let's dance.”


	10. /clash_1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re the motherfucking Justice League.”

Clint Barton is a simple guy. He likes waking up late on Sunday mornings, the smell of God’s gift to mankind (read:  _ coffee),  _ singing in the shower, dancing in his apartment in nothing but his tighty-whities. On occasion, those lazy Sunday mornings are actually Tuesdays—when he stops by the Starbucks beside the metro where they know him by name and his order by heart—or Wednesdays—when he walks instead and visits the dark alley by the bus stop to make sure the runaways have enough food to get through the day. 

At least that’s what happens in the movies. 

_ “Get the fuck down!”  _

In reality, he’s probably the most fucked up person in any room he enters. 

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t move when Vis’ body hurtles toward them at a speed he clocks at  _ way too fast,  _ before Sam is tackling him to the ground. 

Maybe it’s also why instead of lunging for the kid staring open-mouthed at him in slow motion, he watches. 

Even while Sam’s shoulder barrels into his chest and he’s falling. 

He sees the streak no one else does before his head slams into the linoleum. 

It’s quiet again, like plunging underwater, like cotton’s shoved so far up his head that he’s fucking floating. Sam is still shielding him when he blinks his way back into reality, leaning over him with his head tilted back to peer anxiously over the tabletop. 

Clint pushes him off, trying to shake off the all too familiar thickness between his ears. He pulls the aid out of his ear, hurls it away because it’s  _ hurting him.  _

_ “You good?” _ Sam mouths, eyes flooded with concern. He’s bleeding gently from his temple. 

The headcount is involuntary when he stands. And everyone’s moving. 

_ “FRIDAY, get me a location on Vision, now! Rhodey—“ _

_ “I’m on it.” _

_ Red. It was red.  _

_ “What the hell was that?”  _ Sam snaps in his peripherals, rushing to help Steve to his feet, peeling him off a very squashed-looking Stark. 

Rhodey’s already moving, brushing himself off and jogging towards the door, dodging the rubble scattered across the floor.  _ “Whatever it was, it wasn’t Ross.” _

Nat materializes at his elbow, brushing her knuckles against him softly. He’s too numb to be startled or even appreciate the gesture. She echoes the word he doesn’t say, reading his twisted face when it translates into urgency.  _ “Drake?” _

By the wall. 

Ten feet from where Vision left a hole in the floor ten levels down. Steve and Rhodes are there in the next second, obscuring him until all Clint can see are his wide, sky-blue eyes, locked right on his. 

“Something pushed him,” he breathes, not even stopping to see if anyone was speaking. If anyone was listening.  _ Something.  _

_ It was red. Not blue.  _

Pain spikes in his head with the guilt—the despair that he’d buried over and over again with every sleepless night. 

Rhodey turns back, door half open until he sees Clint, muscles already springing into a sharp pivot. 

The bow’s in his hand without him making the decision to grab it and Drake’s eyes widen, starting to push Steve out of the way and Clint can’t hear him—he can’t hear anything.

_ You didn’t see that coming? _

God, he hopes he’s right. 

The arrow’s knocked before he’s processing the thought. drawn smoothly back in a practiced motion he’s had mastered since he could walk. He thinks they’re shouting at him—he can feel Steve’s shout, Rhodey’s footsteps while he closes in—but none of them are fast enough. 

No one but  _ him.  _

It flies the instant it’s lined up with Drake’s forehead which happens to be the last thought of his life that makes sense. 

He doesn’t register the projectile slicing through the air. He just fires. 

The numb feeling disappears in the very same instant the arrow leaves his fingers, pain exploding quicker than his neurons can fire to catch up. 

He’s on his back then, blood seeping from his nose and his side spiking with the pain of a cracked rib. And over him, a cocky smile, blue eyes. Red mask. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

His hearing snaps when someone fires off a round and reflex throws his arms over his head even when the movement produces a tearing pain into his side. 

_ “Stop shooting!”  _ Stark is ordering except it’s not just him. Everyone is shouting and Steve has no idea where to start. He barely has enough time to catalogue the last ten seconds:

A blur. It’s all he caught—out of the corner of his eye. Red. It moved too fast for him to track, shoved both Red Robin and Hawkeye yards away from each other in virtually the same moment. And it hit hard. 

Clint’s bow skitters across the floor, shattered glass in his hair and skin when he curls his arms around his head, pressed against the wall where the invisible force had thrown him. Drake lies half hidden behind one of the far counters. 

He isn’t moving. 

_ “Shit.” _

Rhodes is on the ground too, sharp pain written on his face while he clutches his shoulder. Already, Tony shoves past him, snarling at Nat as he goes. By Rhodey’s feet, the door is just closing shut. 

Steve puts a firm hand on her wrist. She doesn’t need any other indication to reholster and sprint to Clint’s side. Steve growls, vaulting over to kneel by Drake’s unconscious form. “Barton! What the hell was that?”

Sam brackets his other side when Steve rolls the kid gingerly onto his back. Again, there’s no response. He’s out  _ cold.  _ If he couldn’t feel a pulse fluttering under his sensitive fingertips, he wouldn’t have argued the possibility that he might actually be dead. Instead, he scans him up and down for any external injuries—a stray bullet, blunt force trauma—anything that could indicate what the  _ hell  _ just happened. 

Sam checks his neck, his spine, muttering unintelligibly while Clint groans, presses his head into the ground, clenching his teeth so hard that Steve can hear it. “Something pushed him,” he grinds out. “There’s an enhanced individual in the building.”

The arrow. The one he’d sent hurtling toward Drake’s head—it sits planted into the table between them: harmless. 

“The fuck?” Tony echoes from behind him. His own eyes are bright with adrenaline, flicking back and forth between Drake and the two assassins. Uncertainty seizes his chest. Without meaning to, he’s put Drake on the defensive again, and there’s no way to hide it this time. They’re angled aggressively, turned towards him in case he strikes, watching him. And he knows it. 

_ I didn’t see that coming.  _

Everything backfires then, all the progress they’d made—on trusting him, on believing him. But God, he doesn’t know  _ how  _ anymore. None of them do. 

“How the hell did someone even get in here?” Tony demands. 

Steve narrows his eyes and Rhodey sits up, groaning while his back presses against the counter. “Rhodes was leaving. The door was open.”

“You’re saying he was fast?” Natasha demands behind him. It’s a bit too bitter for his taste and the flavor of his mouth seems to match. 

“Did anyone see him?” he counters. 

“Red,” Clint coughs into his elbow. Glass leaves miniscule cuts all over his cheeks and forehead. “He was wearing red.”

It’s too quiet and he feels like everyone is waiting for him to say something, to take point whether they realize it or not. Intentionally or otherwise, Sam saves him from taking the lead and most likely humiliating himself. “He’s waking up.”

Tim blinks himself awake, slowly at first before his eyes clear into a blue that’s beginning to become familiar. “Tim?” Steve asks, laying a hand on his shoulder to help him up. “Are you okay?”

He grips Steve’s arm and even blearily, he’s so sure of himself. “I’m fine.” The next time he blinks his eyes are entirely clear and bright. He stares at Clint. “They’re not going to play nice now.”

The archer scowls, leaning heavily on the table next to him, blinking heavily and taking deliberate, measured breaths. “If that was important to them at all they wouldn’t have turned Vision into a fucking cannonball.” 

Rhodey frowns, looking between the two bristling heroes and the trail of debris bisecting the room. The hole in the floor goes down at least two levels to the ground but Vision isn’t there anymore. “Who was that?” he demands, jabbing a finger at him. 

“I’ve got some idea,” he grinds out, shaking his head out. Somewhere under it all, Steve senses something that tastes a lot like anger. 

Tony pushes past Rhodey, hitting his shoulder. Nat moves to pull him back but he ducks without even turning. “Alright, enough with the cryptic answers. What the hell is going on?”

Drake looks at them with dark eyes, but even then, he’s not  _ really _ looking at them. “Zatara.”

“What?” Steve demands. 

He reiterates without looking at him, without really explaining anything else. “The Justice League.”

They’re just words. Words that should mean something, words that should hold meaning—they’re just blank canvases.

“The who?” Tony barks. 

“Clever test, but stupid.” Drake continues as if no one had spoke, but he’s not looking at anyone but Clint as he sways on his feet. Then to Nat, who hovers stiffly by the archer’s shoulder, simply daring his movements to even  _ suggest  _ hostility, “You managed to tag him. Should slow him down a little. Flash can’t move me too fast, it’ll kill me. But if he’s here—“

FRIDAY cuts him off.  _ “I have detected three alien signatures. Something is obstructing my surveillance capabilities.” _

Tony scrambles to the console, swipes numerous gestures across the screen with focused, narrow eyes. “Talk to me.”

Steve just keeps eying Tim’s face, still turning over itself with vertigo and guarded uncertainty.  _ It’ll kill me.  _ The acceleration, he realizes. It must’ve been what caught him flat-footed. But Pietro has been fast too, and Wanda never exhibited acceleration-induced symptoms. 

“Can you walk?” he asks lowly, strangely reluctant to let Tim pull further away. 

He does anyway, trades his hand for the countertop and nods stiffly, still staring at the floor while his chest heaves. Sam looks at him over his hair and subtly shakes his head.  _ G-LOC,  _ he mouths and Steve’s stomach tightens.  

Not like Pietro.  _ Faster.  _

“Something’s cut the power,” Tony reports thickly. “Emergency and backup.” He makes a gruff sound of annoyance. “And backup-backup.”

“I didn’t think that could happen,” Sam jabs but it’s much less of scoff this time. 

“Yeah, well it is,” he snaps in return. “Fri, progress on the suit?”

_ “Halting repairs now, automatic assembly is offline.” _

He’s moving before she’s even done speaking, grabbing his phone from the desk and beelining for the hole Vision has broken through the floor. “Where are you going?” Steve demands while Tony crouches by the rubble and rebar, picking his way around it with an intent that has the hair on the back of his neck standing at attention. 

“Cover me—” is all he says before he’s dropping to the floor below. Steve doesn’t even have time to panic and lung forward because Nat’s on his tail without so much as a nod in his direction. 

And what else is there to do then but  _ move.  _

The orders come as fluidly as they always did, and it’s just as natural for them to simply  _ react.  _ “Rhodes, Sam—get Drake to the quinjet. Don’t wait—meet us at rendezvous point Tango.”

Drake’s stance is rigid against Rhodey’s insistent hand. He’s only got eyes for Steve. “Maybe I can reason with them—no one has to get hurt.”

Rhodey’s jaw sets. “They took away that choice when they shot Vision out of the sky.”

“I can help,” he argues. Adrenaline and anticipation make his vision light and airy. There’s no way this ends without a full blown fight. Both of them know it. Now it’s just a matter of who’s going to get hurt. 

He tries not to snap but it doesn’t help much. “Listen, we aren’t supposed to be here. The second the fight breaks out this place will be crawling with feds. You’re with us right? With Loki?”

Drake’s gaze cements with insistence and for a moment he’s floored by just how familiar the expression on his face is. He’s seen it in the mirror every day of his life. “You don’t understand—they’re not going to listen to you.”

Barton scoffs. “They ain’t getting a choice, kid.”

Even if he wanted to, Drake doesn’t say anything else when Rhodes guides him out the door, sweeping the building for sightlines with Sam on his six. 

He jerks his head at Clint even though they’re both already moving in sync. “With me.”

They split off immediately, Sam, Rhodes, and Drake melting into the neon blue shadows casting dark shapes across the walls. 

The quiver and arrows make soft  _ snikt!  _ noises when Clint reconfigures them. And for a moment, it’s all they can hear outside of their muted, booted footfalls. 

“Who the hell are these guys?” Clint hisses when they turn into the heart and labrinth of the compound, where the ceiling no longer opens to the hangar roof, where the windows don’t open to green but rather to gray labs and server towers. 

He gets a thrum if deja vu checking his corners and blind spots. Memories of the war, of the Commandos, saving Bucky and encountering Schmidt and Zola for the first time. He’s ready now, though. He knows exactly what to expect: a fight. “Not a damn clue.”

Clint keeps chattering quietly. “This is out of Pérez’s league and Strucker isn’t even on the map anymore.” 

Steve’s voice darkens. His eyes adjust to the new lowlight and Clint is a gray outline in the black. Unrecognizable. “If they’re Drake’s people then they’re fighting the wrong fight.”

Unrecognizable. 

He stops walking. 

“I dunno, we did kinda kidnap him.”

“How did he recognize you?” he demands suddenly and Clint turns back on his heel. The lines of his expression slowly fade into focus. 

“What?”

“Back in Wakanda. How did he know you?”

He misreads the narrowing of his eyes, the change in his hair and he’s confused. It’s the  _ “Cap,”  _ that has him pivoting. 

“Captain.” 

The taste of butter and garlic explodes in his mouth, blackened and burned at edges that taste like iron and blood. 

It’s a woman. Tall, muscular. He can barely pick her out of the dark, even with his enhanced vision—and only by the limelight of her companion. 

The green glints off of hints of sleek armor; a crown in dark tresses, a breastplate with layers of metal. The hilt of a sword, the curve of a shield. 

“Who the hell are you?” he barks, keeping his sight trained on the vague humanoid shapes. The second peels out of the darkness with an emerald glow. 

There’s a snort from afar and a much more masculine quip. “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.”

The light reveals them both. The man: masked eyes and black suit, accented with white and glowing green. Floating above the ground without a care or means in the world, he’s sharp and clear on Steve’s tongue. Like mint and ice. He smells like sulfur. The woman: a warrior undoubtedly, fierce in her eyes and her stance with a warm gaze and a warmer resolve. She smells like coals. 

“And what the hell are you supposed to be? A radioactive glow stick? Skimpy lady liberty?” Clint goads from just behind his shoulder. Neither of them react aside from the man’s tilting lips. 

Amused. 

Her voice yanks him from the strange mix of confusion and aggression. “Red Robin,” she asks—no,  _ demands.  _ His spine tightens with an urgency he hasn’t felt since  _ Before.  _ Like a certain auburn-haired spitfire with passion and  _ good _ in her heart. He’s so thrown that his aim falters. “Where is he?” 

“You’re not taking him,” Clint bites almost before she’s finished speaking. The protectiveness radiating off of him is thick, unwavering, and just for a second Steve’s glance is cast in his direction. 

The words roll off her tongue like caramel, coating the anger in his chest with something much lighter. Much smoother. “Unfortunate. We’re not leaving without him.” 

Another color washes the hall with light: yellow. Pale corn silk radiates from the long rope gripped in one of her hands, igniting the entire length with light. It highlights her jawline, the wisps of hair that frame her face. 

His hand clenches. He needs his  _ shield.  _

“Uh… what the  _ fuck?”  _ Clint squawks, relaxing his arrow to peer more intensely through the dark. The lasso isn’t the only thing starting to cast shadows across the floor.

It’s  _ green.  _

The woman speaks again and this time, her eyes lock onto his. “I’ll ask one more time: where is he?”

Steve clenches his jaw. He’s probably going to regret this, but better to ask for forgiveness than…  _ whatever.  _ “Go to hell.”

He doesn’t know where exactly Clint’s arrow strikes, but he knows that it’s on target and dispels the smoke exactly as intended when it starts to flood the hallway. 

_ Green.  _ That’s what slams him into the wall before he’s even halved the distance between them. In the smoke, there’s no real way to tell, but his senses are keen enough to track the mass moving past him. He trips her while he reels, waiting for her toe to catching his shin and then twisting with enough force to bring his other heel to the back of her head. 

He feels it in his bones when she goes down, slamming into the floor while he tries to stop seeing doubles. He doesn’t expect her to pick herself up before he’s even taken another breath. 

Her fist drives into his gut, throat, then the foot in his chest is sending him flying back. 

_ Ok. She can fight,  _ he notes dimly just before he’s slamming into the wall full force. Pain explodes in his back and reignites the injuries from France. His chest struggles to inflate, the ghost of her foot forcing his lungs to cave like a flattened soda bottle. He picks himself gingerly off the floor, trying not to wince. 

His heart in his throat, he uses two seconds to catch his breath and watch Clint wage his own war against the woman. Unlike Steve, Clint doesn’t let her touch him, keeps her close but far enough to dodge whatever she swings at him. 

She’s almost too fast to watch but Steve catches the snap of her wrist when she flicks it towards the hilt behind her shoulder. 

She doesn’t have time to anticipate the kick he lands behind her knee, the elbow he cracks on her neck, that the kick that drives into her stomach and sends her rolling across the floor. 

Both the sword and shield clatter out of her reach and just as they start to glow green, Clint’s got another arrow drawn back: and this one has a considerably larger blast radius. It blinks red against his smirking cheek. “You’ve crashed the wrong party, Abercrombie,” he grins. 

But the man, the one floating, he just smiles back. “We’ll see about that.” 

If Steve ever sees the color green again it’ll be too soon. 

He thinks they’re panthers at first, maybe tigers—without stripes. And he doesn’t think it’s real— _ because it’s green— _ but when it snarls he isn’t so sure. 

And it’s green and he doesn’t have a weapon so when it lashes it’s tail and charges him, he swings. 

He’s never actually  _ seen  _ a jaguar, and he has no idea how this one’s strength matches a real one, but it cries when he sends it stumbling to the side, just far enough for him to dive for the discarded shield. 

It’s unbalanced, it wasn’t made like his was, but just having one in his hands is natural and  _ right.  _

And he never sees it coming. 

But she does. Clint does. 

She knocks it clean out of the air with a backhanded swipe, almost misses the explosive arrow lined up with her face, but then she’s slamming her gauntlets together. 

Heat burns his face but he has the foresight to move in front of Clint’s body. There’s no shrapnel, no debris or smoke, just the flash of dry heat, and the concussive implosion that blasts them all back. 

Clint takes the brunt of his weight but they both end up on the ground, thrown back by something loud, powerful, invisible, and his ears won’t stop ringing. “What the hell?” Clint groans. he pushes himself up slowly but Steve’s already crouching, mirroring the woman’s own stance, bracelets burning gold in the dark, a few yards from where she was before. 

Her partner steps out of a green phone booth, out of place and suspended in the air until the door closes behind him and it disintegrates into darkness. 

The jaguar is a ghost now—four of them, actually. Not  _ normal  _ ghosts either. 

He has no idea what to think when Inky, Pinky, Blinky, and Clyde glare at him in flawless, authentic 8-bit motion. 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Even over the distance between them, he can hear the admonishment in his companion’s scold.  _ “Lantern.” _

He can’t keep it in anymore—the incredulity, the confusion. “Who the hell  _ are  _ you?”

There’s a wild grin. “We’re the motherfucking  _ Justice League.” _

She socks him in the jaw, twists her way out of reach. Lantern’s arms are coming over his throat again and it takes everything in him just to gasp. 

_ “Hawkeye!” _

He’s already pivoted on his knee, righted his shoulder and nocked an arrow and it’s flying even before the green is all he can see. 

The arrowtip scrapes by her scalp when she ducks. She slides on the ground, catches the corner of the wall as she goes and uses the momentum to catapult herself over the railing and into the spray of gunfire. 

The sparks fly off her armor before her weight crashes into the android’s flight path, sending them both crashing to the floor. 

Steve slams his elbow back, feels resistance on a knee and slams it back again. Lantern shouts and the grip around his neck loosens enough for him to rear his head back too. He’s too hopped up on adrenaline to register the miniscule pain it brings to his skull to crack open Lantern’s nose like a beer bottle but he hears the strangled cry all the same before he’s sprinting full tilt down the hall. 

_ “On your left!” _ The shield comes flying unevenly at him and it’s pure reflex, muscle memory and just  _ automatic  _ to grab it, grip it against his forearm and it’s so much  _ better.  _

It’s even easier to hurl it down to where the woman’s sword is raised to Vision’s neck. Sparks explode against her armor and the shield is ricocheting off in the opposite direction, bouncing back right into his arms. 

Her gaze whips around, dark and narrowed and he braces the railing. 

“Get Red Robin out of here!” he barks at Sam who’s still watching him open-mouthed. 

He doesn’t wait for a reaction, vaulting over the rail. 

She meets him halfway, arcing into the air with a jump far too elegant and powerful to be anything but inhuman. 

The second the blade connects with the curve of the shield, he feels it: the familiar tension and rock in the air. He sees the split second surprise on her face before it’s throwing her back. 

Vision is nearly drowning in the cracked cement and linoleum of the floor. He looks unscathed but his eyes are more somber than Steve’s ever seen them. The hand he reaches out is warm. Trusting. 

He’s forgotten the feeling. 

“What happened, Vis?” They don’t have much time. The woman is still reeling on the ground in confusion but she’ll recover soon. 

His hand is still gripping his forearm but he’s scanning the room. “He attacked me while I was securing the perimeter.”

“Who?” She’s pushing herself to her feet, shaking her head. 

“I don’t know.”

In the next second, he’s shooting off and straight into a blur he doesn’t see until it’s skidding across the floor in a crimson streak. 

Vision doesn’t feel pain. Not the way humans do. He doesn’t have nerves like they do, neurons and receptors and all the little intricacies that make people—living  _ breathing  _ people—so much more complex. Not to say that Vision can’t  _ feel.  _

Because he can feel anger. He can feel frustration and shock and love. And he can feel the bones in his hand snapping as he closes his hand around the intruder’s shoulders. He can feel  _ their  _ anger,  _ their  _ panic when the floor under their spine cracks. Even through their cowl, he can see widened blue eyes. 

Then they’re gone. 

He’s fast. Vision, that is. But this human—this  _ man,  _ he’s faster. The first blow lands on his jaw and when he lunges forward to retaliate, there’s nothing but another bundle of receptors exploding under his rib cage. The pattern continues: a red blue followed by bursts of pain and frustration until he phases. 

His density shifts just before the fist meets his face and the man trips, tangible and in full color now. He skids across the floor in a graceless heap. 

He feels the stone humming, guides it along until it’s burning to be let loose. It pulses strangely against his skin, enough that he hesitates. His focus floods, overflows past the confines of his head and he can feel  _ everyone:  _ their hearts, their thoughts, wishes and wants. Their  _ minds.  _ The stone grows hot. Enough that he stops. 

Enough for Barry to hum, vibrating his molecules minutely enough to slip free despite the shrieking pain in his leg and neck. 

Superman is behind him in the next half second, slamming the android’s face into the concrete where he’d just been lying. 

Obviously, something’s wrong. He says as such in into the comms, having taken cover in a darker corridor slightly out of view. His leg aches, still weeping a steady stream of blood onto the floor, his suit torn town his shin to expose a hefty gash in the pale skin. 

Something is very wrong. 

_ “What’s wrong?”  _ Batman answers almost immediately, nowhere to be seen. He’s tracking Drake after they lost him in the chaos. Superman has lost him too after the explosion knocked his hearing to the moon.  

“I’m not healing,” Barry pants, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to stay on his feet. He can feel the bullet lodged in his bicep too—stopped by one bone or another as far as he can tell. “My speed—”

_ “Hold on, Flash,” _ filters through. His vision starts to swim. He vaguely remembers this kind of exertion from way back when, during the lightning and the speed and the powers. When his heart felt like it was going to explode, when he seemed to be in a permanent state of hyperventilation and his senses didn’t even remotely align with one another. 

It feels like he’s falling apart. 

And then it just feels like pain. 

“Tired already?” comes a taunt that raises his head. His vision is so thrown that all he can make out is a dark blue halfway down that hallway, but he pushes himself off the wall, plants his heels in the ground. 

It’s not enough to stop him from being swept off his feet when something thick and cold slams lengthwise across his torso. He sees it coming, forces his legs to move but they don’t. 

He’s phasing now, can see it when he looks down at his fingers.  _ Get a hold of yourself, Allen. Fight! _

And he tries. He makes it halfway down the hall, on his feet in the next blink before he has to stop again. His breath sticks in his throat when it heaves, gasping like a fish out of water. This time, the man pauses. The light changes now that they’re traded places and Barry can see the mechanical wings protruding from his back. The eyebrows over his goggles furrow into a from that seems genuinely concerned. “Dude, are you okay?” 

He never gets to answer because Hal’s there, washing the walls in green with the boxing glove that smacks him out of view and through the glass of the server room. The noise alone sends him the rest of the way to the ground, and by the time Hal’s actually reached him, he’s on the tile. 

A cool hand meets his cheek. “Whoa, what’s going on big guy?”

“Just a little sick,” he manages around the nausea. “Give me a second.”

“B,” he hears tinny in one ear and baritone in the other. “Situation.”

He shakes his head and almost vomits.  _ “What was it?” _

He hears Hal behind him when he curls onto his side and loses his lunch. “I think it was the android.”

It won’t break. 

He notices that first, second, and then over and over again. This thing doesn’t cave. 

Vision, he thinks they called it. 

It reminds him of J’onn. If J’onn was actually Red Tornado. And could go toe-to-toe with him. 

But Tornado breaks. He chips and dents. J’onn bleeds and scars, same as any of them. 

Vision does not. 

He gets that after the nth time pounding his face into the concrete. He doesn’t know what number punch it is—only that it’s up there—that Vision finally decides to catch, and for the first time in a very long time  _ Clark stops.  _ Not because he wants to, but because he doesn’t have a choice. 

That shock must show on his face and it has to look hilarious. This time, it’s Vision’s fist that rears back. It catches his jaw—it  _ hurts _ —once, twice, three times before he’s grabs that one too and they’re locked. No more moves, no more game: checkmate. 

Clark growls. “What the hell are you?” 

_ There.  _ The power source: glowing yellow. Glowing brighter. 

The man catches the shield when he throws it, when he pauses to kick the woman away with as much force as possible, when he starts to shine red and Vision yellow. Energy buzzes in the air before it turns cold. 

Red eyes. Did they used to be blue?

The shield slices back through the air, not spinning or flying—just  _ moving  _ with enough force that the skin in his palms  _ breaks.  _ The familiar sting is enough to have him looking down. 

He doesn’t have time to process what he’s seeing before his arm is  _ burning.  _ It’s bright yellow, glowing as it wraps itself around his arms and chest. It tightens in an instant and his breath catches, shield falling from his fingers. 

“Who are you?” she growls. The rope pulls taut across his chest, binds his arms to his ribcage and for a fleeting second, he panics. It’s hot, nearly burning his skin through his shirt and there’s no give, even when the woman at the other end leans over him. He gives a knee, unable to stop the groan that slips through his teeth. “The Lasso of Hestia compels your truth. What have you done with Red Robin?” He doesn’t know what that means but he can feel it: the words press the back of his throat, pulling forward. They slide back down, but not without digging claws into his throat. 

“I—“

The pressure gives suddenly and the air rushes into his lungs cold when he gasps. When the tears in his eyes finally clear, there’s red in his vision: cherry with silver and gold accents—metal, no— _ iron. _

The blue overlay of the suit’s analysis program contrasts intensely with the crimson of her own armor, elegant and warrior-like. The origin scan turns up empty, as does the facial recognition pulling from every resource and data bank he has access to. When she stands the world shifts, moving under her feet, muscles pulling like waves of untapped power and it only takes another second for FRIDAY to mark her down with the rest:  _ hostile. _

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, sweetheart,” he says, letting the snark pour on thick. “But I don’t take walk-ins.”

_ “Facial recognition failed,”  _ she reports tersely and the readout scrolls down in the grid framing her dark eyes and pursed lips. Her dark hair streams thick behind the star-adorned headpiece and she snaps her arm out, gathering the rope in her hand.  _ “She’s strong, boss. Her strength surpasses even  _ Asgardian _ levels.”  _

That  _ may  _ be a problem. For the first time in a long time, Tony isn’t too sure he can get out of what he’s gotten himself into. Because he doesn’t have the suit. Not a full one anyway. He’s got mismatched parts: both gauntlets from Mark 47, basic chestplate from 45 that covers his left shoulder in a seedy configuration to the rest of the armor on his arm, a couple leg components from an unnamed prototype, and the busted helmet from a few hours prior. It leaves him feeling strangely vulnerable even as FRIDAY check, and re-checks the interfacing compatibility (he knew he should’ve gone with retrocompatibility over energy regeneration). 

She’s gorgeous in the unnatural way that some people just  _ are _ . Her chin tilts up and it does nothing to lighten the unadulterated confidence in the amber of her eyes. If anything, there’s a note of playfulness in them and his smirk grows wild. “Stark,” she says simply and the name rolls off her tongue with tones of regality and patience. The lasso returns to a catch on her leather-clad hip and its muted yellow hue. Instead, her hand reaches around to grasp the hilt of the sword between her shoulder blades. There’s years of experience and practice in that one move, righting the shield in her grip. “I hope you throw better punches than you do parties,” she taunts with a little more quirk in her lips, striding closer, holding the sword out to her side with all the intention to swing it at his head. 

He lowers his chin and meets her halfway, thrusters booting up under his heels and in his palms (spotty at first—damn  _ retrocompatibility) _ . “I’ll shoot you an invite and you can let me know.”

His first charged swing at her head meets the steel wall of her shield. It’s the same move Steve’s pulled on him countless times, but unlike Steve, she doesn’t contract under the force he  _ knows  _ is strong enough to make even  _ Hulk  _ reconsider his career choices. The punch is simply absorbed into the shield, into her body without her reacting even slightly. FRIDAY says something he doesn’t hear because he’s too focused on the other voice, strong and even, filtering through his helmet: “Parties.”

He barely manages to block the blade coming down on him, hissing when it slides into the armor. _ Okay, certain death is a bit more certain. No more close calls like that. Too risky _ . But the competition burns now, FRIDAY already employing the self-repairing protocols (the ones that  _ work) _ . He can feel the heat pooling in his palm before the discharge, the familiar trigger of the mechanisms against his skin when they deploy. “Oh, I’m not done yet.”

The blast hits her square in the face and when she moves her shield under his fist, the second hits home in her side. It’s Steve who knocks her off her feets, charging into her with his own shield, sending her tumbling across the room. 

“Thanks,” he pants, sweat dripping down the profile of his nose. For a moment, uneasiness solidifies in his stomach at the sight of the shield in Steve’s hand again. His chest heaves once, silently but before either of them can properly acknowledge it, she’s on her feet, shaking herself from the rubble. There’s no blood, no scratches or bruises or any evidence to lend to the fact that Tony had just blasted her with a crippling dose of repulsor-fire. There’s no smile anymore either. 

He raises his hand level with her again, watching her tense, watching her eyes narrow. “If you’re the threat, you can do a lot better.”

The response comes from an entirely different direction, a blind spot in his vision. Dimly, he registers Cap flying out of reach, just before his head is wrenched back, knocking inside his helmet like a fucking pinball machine. “Here’s better.” 

Tony’s suit crashes into itself, metal crumpling like tissue paper when a bulk of muscle flies into him. He’s off his feet and the force comes again, square in the center of his forehead. He gets the vague sensation of falling for a split second and then there’s concrete under his back and a stabbing pain in his spine. He only has a moment to reclaim the air in his pummeled lungs before the pressure returns in the form of a hand on his neck. No—not a hand—a  _ chain.  _ It glows green, light seeping into his vision to clash with the hue of the HUD. Hell, he can see  _ through it.  _

He’s slender and long, clad in black and green. The mask fits over his nose, freestanding to let chestnut waves curl back from his forehead. And he grins, fist extended: a ring. 

The chain tightens around his neck and the suit starts to sound angrily at him, status overlay flashing red while the pressure skyrockets. His fingers pull at the corporeal projections but they’re solid, immovable. The more force he exerts the more it pushes back, only growing stronger with every attempt to fight it. 

The gasp is involuntary when he chokes for air. He raises an arm to fire a shot but the chain shifts to wrestle it back to his side. 

But nothing about his smile is contemptuous. If anything, it’s  _ playful.  _

_ “Unibeam charged, boss!” _

He can gasp again, can barely get the words out. “Let's give ‘im hell.”

He can feel the pain when his construct shatters, feels it underneath the explosion of agony when Stark’s energy blast burrows into his chest. His back makes contact with the glass of one of the hangar’s many modules—a lab of some sort. Small victories. 

At least until Stark is charging at him again with a high-powered fist. He manages to throw up a weak shield but even before he deploys it, he knows it won’t hold. The pain ripples again when Stark’s fist sails through, echoed by a much more explosive feeling in his jaw. 

They crash backwards when the glass shatters. Somewhere in the chaos they untangle amid the shards of debris and broken lab equipment.  _ Oh, God,  _ that really made his head spin. But, c’mon. He’s fought Lex fucking Luthor before. Stark? He’s not even in a full suit.

He has to be. This started off as a recon mission. Then a rescue. Now, he has no clue. All he knows is that the pieces are stating to add up and he  _ really  _ doesn’t like the picture. 

He shakes himself out of the rubble just as Stark’s pushing himself onto his feet, suit whirring at the joints, glowing ominously from white eyes. Hal feigns dusting himself off. “For a Coke can,” he smirks, “you pack a punch, Stark.”

The head of the suit tilts conversationally. “Oh, I’m just getting started, Gumby.” 

The blast catches his shoulder from the completely wrong angle and the shout is more from surprise than anything else. He fires off a nondescript energy blast at Stark before turning to the newcomer with a glowing fist. 

It catches the gray suit in the jaw, snapping its head back. The hundred missiles that materialize by his head give him enough time to construct the bomb over it’s glowing chest, letting rope snake up its legs and completely immobilize it. The cry it lets out is human when it topples to the side. 

He’s prepared for the shot this time, catching it in a green baseball mitt before it even gets close. He uses chains again just to be petty, coils them around his wrists until he’s kneeling on the floor. The jets fire, fighting against his hold but he’s a goddamn  _ Lantern.  _

The Cars Thing is classic, a staple really. And the whole room is so very green. 

Stark struggles when he sees them coming. “You got a bondage kink there, Kermit?”

Hal levels the ring with the center of Stark’s chest, a white target in a room full of  _ green.  _ The glee and will surges up in his chest, not quite bubbling, but a growing pressure that sends power to his muscles. He grins even wider. “Nah.”

The constructs shatter and he screams. 

Clint doesn’t wait to watch the man’s reaction when his arrow completely shatters his third metacarpal bone. He’s already moving. 

The layout of the compound is burned into his brain and from the rafters, he’s got a clear view of the whole battle. 

Three clusters make up the compound, arranged in a vague triangle inside the hangar’s rectangular shell. Over the main complex, the clearance between the roof and the ceiling of the modules is barely fifteen feet. Housing more of the labs and team offices and meeting rooms, it takes up the bulk of the compound—the top of the triangle, per say. 

The other two are connected by respective pedestrian bridges leading to bunking on one side, and the armory on the other. Between them all on the ground floor, consist more labs and offices, as well as the fleet of vehicles and aircraft. 

It’s the vantage over all of them that lets him see when the green Veggie-Fry yeets Tony from Cap and proceeds to fly backwards into one of the labs. 

It lets him see Vision pummel the caped-Calvin Klein model through the fucking ceiling. 

It lets him see the ambush across the building, in the same rafters as him, waiting to pounce on the unaware figures of Sam and Nat, three and a half floors below. 

“Nat,” he snaps into the comms, only seeing her freeze in response from the corner of his vision. 

He doesn’t know how the target picks him out, or how it even knows where to look, but it knows the instant that Clint’s got its head on a bullseye. 

They stare down for a moment too long and too short at the same time. Nat makes the call that he can’t it’s the report of her gun that rips them both from the shadows.

There’s a wetness on his fingers and then a blinding pain.  _ “Shit!” _

The arrow goes wide. 

Clint doesn’t miss. Natasha knows that. So when the arrow digs into the wall with a soft  _ snikt! _ she’s already somersaulting away. 

The explosion of heat hits her back but she keeps moving. The concussion blast makes her head thick and stuffy but she moves. The structure of the walkway above shudders, creaks and moans while it loses its battle with gravity. The whole thing rips down the center, falling and shattering on the ground in a head of rubble and dust. It mixes in the air, a dense fog of drywall and smoke. 

It’s silent in the fog, eerie with the background of settling rubble and cracking concrete. Nevertheless, something sets her senses off in conflicting directions. It keeps her spinning, looking over her should until she can regain a grip on herself. 

She feels the change in the airflow a beat before she reflexively dodges the punch that would’ve crushed her jaw inwards. 

The world comes back in full when her hands connect with a heavily armored wrist, thick with muscles and gadgets alike. She uses it as leverage to deliver crushing kicks to his solar plexus and throat. 

He makes no sound, no indication that it has any effect outside of the minuscule step back he gives. 

And it’s enough. 

She plants both feet in his chest and launches him a few more steps back. Falling backwards into the roll sets her back into the fog but he never loses track of her. 

She goes low for his feet, surprised when it works. Getting her legs around his arm and a foot in his neck is a challenge but she wrestles him into it. Armor won’t protect his joints from hyperextension. 

He growls low when his arm bends backwards and her core burns to pull back on the force he’s straining to pull it back. 

She has no idea if the Widow Bites will work but she tries it anyway, pressing her wrist into the crook of his armored elbow. 

The tingle of electricity hits him more than it hits her when his body seizes. His teeth slam together, grinding but even while he tenses, he’s thinking. The emergency grapple in his gauntlet shoots out when he clenches his fist and it rips past her face. 

She cries out, releasing her grip long enough for him to slam his fist back into her chest, forcing all the air from her lungs out into the open. 

Warm liquid gushes from the wound and it screams so adamantly that she almost pitches back into the ground. But she’s a fighter. She always has been. So she stands. 

She’s good—he’ll give her that. 

They’re matched punch for punch, kick for kick, and he’s only gaining ground because he’s physically stronger. She whips around and when she comes back it’s her heel he’s catching in his hand. He manages a brutal chop to her shin, watches her bite through the flinch, against the cry when she twists impossibly, using his hold as leverage. 

This time the kick lands slightly behind his ear, a sharp boot and a sharper pain even through the cowl. 

She fights like Dick does: light on her feet. Dirty. But there’s none of the humor, the bubbly quips and grins. She’s deadly. Like Cassandra. Like Talia. 

She’s good. He’s better. 

He sees the electric features on her cuffs light up, catches her arm before it comes down on his neck. The static raises hair, the energy exciting the air just above his face. She grits her teeth, pressing down with her weight. 

He lets the sneer trickle on his lips the second before he’s caving, redirecting her wrists and balance until he can get her into a headlock. “Where’s Red Robin?” he snarls close to her ear. The moments where he truly feels the like the Dark Knight are few and far between. This happens to be one of those moments and he lets it engulf him fully, pure rage and determination fueling his strength. 

Her throat contracts under the pressure of his arms and he feels the panic start in her body, fingers trembling and breath 

“The Bat,” she gasps. He didn’t know how much Tim told her, if he’d told them anything. Obviously, he knows now. 

She gasps, one hand clawing at his bicep, the other reaching for his utility belt where he fingers won’t find anything she can use. Her words sting well enough. “Now I see—see why he’s so sc—scared of you.” He can feel his heart skip, doesn’t doubt that she can too but outside of that initial reaction, there’s no time to act because the shout in his ears isn’t from the comms. 

_ “Lantern, stop!”  _ Clark’s voice always carries the perfect amount of daunting volume and wicked edge so that when it snaps across the room,  _ everyone  _ freezes. 

“Clint!” someone bites, and he thinks it’s one of Rogers’. 

“Mad, bro?” the archer goads, eyebrow raising, nonchalance thick on his tongue. 

He can see Hal’s eyes from here,  _ glowing green  _ with fury he didn’t know was building up.  _ “Very.” _

His voice sends off so many warning signals that he releases Widow, let’s her fall to the floor while he presses a finger to his comms. “Flash—“

He’s up on the catwalk before anyone says another word, picking through the arsenal of green knives pressing against Barton’s heaving throat. It mirrors the wicked arrowhead pressing into Hal’s own carotid, not deep enough to tear it open, but enough that he’s frozen, a cherry red pearl welling up on the arrowtip. Barry’s voice, steady and calm, feeds through the air and the voice channel. His eyes slide over to the archer’s bleeding arm, drawn back steadily, but trembling with exhaustion. “Lantern—you gotta let go. It’s over—“

He can hear Jordan’s thoughts, tumbling over each other in a heap of logic and emotions. He’s a hot-headed idiot with an ego and hero complex to match his own. But unlike Bruce, Hal is an airman. He’s a soldier. 

He’s honorable. 

“Shit—“ he slumps and Barry’s there to catch him. The green falls away into nothingness and the instant it’s gone, Barton is collapsing, falling onto his knees and releasing the arrow strung taut on his bow. 

It’s the Captain that speaks next, bellow soaring across the room unobstructed. “If you’re all done, I’d like to know who the hell you think you are.”

He’s bleeding—from where, he can’t exactly pinpoint, but he’s breathing harder than he has in a very long time. His muscles burn with exertion and also adrenaline. He has to force them to stay still, to stop twitching preemptively, long enough to  _ talk.  _

And oh, he’s  _ pissed.  _

The woman shakes herself off, in front of him and finally looking a bit more like she’d actually been  _ trying  _ during the fight.  A trickle of blood slips past her scalp and down her forehead. Her scowl is deep and mirrors his own. “If you think you’re in any place to make demands after taking one of our own—“

Tony lands heavily on her other side, boots and fist cutting into the ground when his knee crushes concrete. When he stands it’s not without his distinct brand of egoism, a cocky slant on his shoulders. “No offense, princess, but no one _took_ anyone. And your little welcome party?” He motions loosely between them. “Not doing me any favors.”

“And you’re all about favors, aren’t you Stark?” The tall one, with the mouth, he’s barely conscious. He’s half draped over the shoulders of a man clad in red, a lightning bolt stamped across his chest. 

“Haven’t learned your lesson yet?” Clint, sprawled on his back and panting hard, goads meanly, calling up from the floor. Nat’s kneeling by his side, the whole right side of her face is slick with blood and his heart leaps to his throat, a very  _ intense,  _ very  _ different _ kind of fury pouring liquid into his veins. 

The man turns, glowing green. “Then I’ll keep beating your ass into next week.”

Clint’s eyes flash and he’s pushing himself up against Nat’s hand. “Let's go another round, string bean.”

_ “Enough.”  _ It’s the other one. The strong one. Vision tenses, peeling slightly from his side to match the aggressor. He turns heads when he floats down to the floor, feet silent when they flatten into the ground. 

Steve doesn’t know exactly  _ why  _ his hair stands on end, why his heart starts pounding in his ears. And the man doesn’t hide the fact that he  _ knows.  _ Doesn’t hide the way eyes just seem to gravitate toward him, or the way that he seems to pull the heat out of the air. This man shifts reality just by breathing and he knows it. It puts the rest of them on and edge and they have no idea why. 

“You’re the leader?” Steve demands, making sure he doesn’t look the slightest bit put off. 

It takes a lot to turn his will into apprehension—much less  _ doubt.  _ But this guy—this guy does it with one fucking look. “Where’s Red Robin?” he counters, voice hardly more than a growl above his heartbeat. 

The uncertainty is gone almost as fast as it came and Steve narrows his eyes and takes a step. His eyes hone in on it but he doesn’t react or move away. “You don’t get to come into my turf and make demands.”

He frowns thinly and lowers his chin. “This isn’t your turf anymore. Captain.”

He isn’t prepared for the stab of pain that brings and for a split second he sees nothing but red, feels his fist clenching against the shield, his boots digging into the floor with all the intention to drive into the stranger’s gut until it came out the other end. But when his mouth opens to deliver a retort, he’s being pulled back by someone else. 

It’s a suit like Stark’s. A great deal more industrial—rugged. The eyes light up the same but they’re dark with an icy indifference. There’s an arsenal retrofitted in the shoulders, not even half as sleek or streamlined as any of Stark’s builds, but still vaguely reminiscent of the crimson model behind the his shoulder. 

“No one is going anywhere until we all get some answers. Alright?” His voice is sharper than his own, less room for an argument. Even behind the visor, he can feel Rhodes’s molten glare. “Now, no matter which way you put it, you’re the aggressing party. On top of that, while none of this strictly violates the Sokovia Accords, it does violate the Registration Act. So,” he pauses, “who are you?”

Rhodes says it more diplomatically and even-edged than he could ever hope to in this situation and the man waits a long time before he answers, weighing his options—weighing all of their options. Steve forces himself not to audibly seethe before he finally speaks. “Superman.”

“Superman,” Rhodes echoes. The team tenses around him: Stark silent behind his shoulder, flanked by Vision. Hawkeye and Black Widow are farther away, huddled against each other, within arm’s reach of  _ “Lantern”  _ and the enhanced. Closer, is the woman who Steve had fought to a reluctant stand-still. She’s backed off a few feet but still grips both her sword and shield in hand. She flanks Superman, mirroring Tony’s own placement behind Steve, and opposite her is  _ him.  _

It has to be him. 

The  _ Bat.  _

Steve hadn’t even seen him until the fight had ended, until Natasha had cried out with a gouge in her cheek, until Clint was seconds away from biting a green bullet and Sam was in his ear shouting for back-up. 

“Wonder Woman,” he states and the woman sets her jaw, tilts her head in some motion halfway between a nod and a jerk. “Batman.” And he doesn’t say a word, just keeps on glaring. “Green Lantern and the Flash.” Both make some motion in turn, the former with an ill-tempered sneer, and the latter with a firm nod and thin lips. 

Clint scoffs but it’s Tony that speaks: “You’re kidding right? They pull you guys out of a cereal box or something?”

Too many of them bristle at the jibe and the tension only skyrockets that much higher. “Steve Rogers,” he bites, not bothering too much to smother the curtness in his words. “But you already knew that.”

Past Superman’s shoulder, the Bat’s eyes narrow to light gray slits. “This isn’t up for debate and this isn’t a courtesy meeting.” His voice is like gravel and thunder, rolling like ice crystals against a coffee grinder. “Where is Red Robin?” 

Natasha coughs before anyone else can answer. “He’s running from you.” 

Eyes slide over to her, encircled by Superman's team. The Bat  _ growls.  _ “Excuse me?”

“Drake,” Nat returns sharply. Her eyes are bright when she glares through the red caking on her skin. “He’s scared of you.”

Something changes in the Bat’s stance and turns from cool to hostile.  _ “‘Drake?’”  _ he repeats, snarling this time. 

Vision lifts fully off the ground now and the mechanisms in Tony’s and Rhodey’s suits fire up again. Green Lantern and Wonder Woman both see the change and instantly tense. 

To her credit, Nat doesn’t faze at all when the Batman takes a very pointed step toward her and Clint, only stopped by the steel arm that catches his wrist. 

Superman’s eyes flash with caution. “Easy.” 

The black-clad figure pauses, face hidden before he turns back with a voice so cold and measured that Steve wonders if it’s even the same person. “You’re out of your depth,” he grates. “You have no idea what’s at stake here, and I’m not about to  _ coddle  _ a group of amateurs still playing pretend.”

Tony scoffs, suit still on standby, waiting for an order, a sign—a  _ something. “‘Amateurs?’  _ You guys hearin’ this?” 

He vaguely hears Clint’s exasperated “No” over the clamor of everyone else’s retorts. 

Superman blinks before narrowing his eyes with blatant incredulity in Tony’s direction.  _ “That’s  _ what you got from that?”

The man supporting Lantern’s weight, the Flash, is quick to counter. “Oh, hop off, Stark. We’re not talking about your  _ Lego  _ creations.”

Funnily enough, it’s Vision that responds with a glaring dismissal coating his words. “A rather formidable creation, it seems,” he answers thinly. 

But Steve’s only got eyes for Superman. “You don’t get to come here with hostile intentions and just  _ get _ what you want. Leave. Walk away.”

Wonder Woman looks down her nose at him, respectful but also strangely condescending. “The boy is with us.”

Clint very nearly growls. “He doesn’t go anywhere until we figure out what he knows about Thanos.”

They almost move in unison, their heads snapping onto the archer all at once but it’s the Bat that snarls deep in his throat. “What did you just say?”

Clint’s eyes widen but the Bat makes Steve look like a clumsy kid again, so much quicker when he yanks the sharpshooter forward with one hand in the collar of his vest. He yelps when his balance tips and Nat’s kick is already flying through the air. 

It never makes it. 

“That’s enough!” 

_ “Tim Drake.”  _

_ He nearly shits himself.  _

_ “He told me he’d deal with you. I don’t know why I’m surprised.”  _

_ Bludhaven isn’t anything like Gotham. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it’s  _ worse.  _ He hates it. He’s cold, wet, and he has no way back to Gotham. He thinks about his mother coming into his room like she used to; to check on him, to kiss him goodnight. She doesn’t do that anymore. She hasn’t in a very long time.  _

_ The cold here is much better than the cold there. _

_ The rain slips under his collar, slicking his skin even under the hoodie. He’d tried to wear the most inconspicuous thing he owned but it hadn’t helped. He’d managed to lose a couple rowdy shadows a few blocks back by ducking into a alleyway. Now, the smell of grime and garbage sticks to his clothes. Narrow-shouldered and overall a small person, he makes an easy target. So in all, he’s fairly surprised he made it as far as the warehouse by the docks—figuring if he couldn’t bait him out, he’d wait. _

_ He just didn’t expect it to  _ work. 

_ Because tracking a  _ Bat  _ without getting sent home in a full-body cast—it’s unheard of.  _

_ “Go back to Gotham, kid. There’s nothing here for you.” _

_ His name echoes off the walls and a whole other type of chill races down his spine. He clenches the measly pocket knife in his hoodie knowing full well that it won’t do jack-shit if the vigilante decided he isn’t worth his time. But he’s got proof. He’s got a concrete timeline and the only thing that makes his words shake in that moment is the blistering Michigan cold.  _

_ “He’s dead, isn’t he?” _

_ For a second, he feels stupid talking to the cool emptiness of the warehouse. There’s nothing around him except the concrete floor, several old fire barrels and loose piles of processed wood. Then, he sees him.  _

_ It’s still silent, nothing changes, but there’s a man standing where there wasn’t one before.  _

_ He swallows the lump in his throat, staring back at the faceless shape, backlit by the pathetic lamplight on the dock. “He’s dead.” _

_ This time it’s a growl and even though the shadow doesn’t move, he flinches. Yeah, this is how he dies: thirteen years young from a freaking heart attack. There are worse ways, he supposes.  _

_ “A lot of people are dead. I don’t see why—“ _

_ “Robin is dead.” He blurts it out. Forgets that he’s not  _ supposed  _ to know, and if the air wasn’t frozen before, it sure is now.  _ “Jason Todd  _ is dead.” _

_ He manages one step back in the time it takes for the vigilante to stalk across the entire floor and yank him off his feet. “What the hell did you just say?” _

_ “I didn’t tell anyone—I promise! No one else knows,” he sputters, trying desperately to turn away from the furious breath on his face.  _

_ Nightwing blinks. He’s tall, strong, bristling. He’s nothing like Robin. Not anymore.  _

_ “How?” He hisses, but an edge of his voice dips into uncertainty. Tim tries to remember how to breathe.  _

_ “I figured it out. I figured all of them out—I just put the pieces together.” Nightwing’s fists tighten in his collar so he just keeps talking. “I’m not one of them—I’m not crooked, I swear. No one knows I’m here, and you of all people should know that no one’s gonna look twice at some new money Gotham prep.” _

_ And he holds his breath, waits until the gears catch and the ball starts rolling. Only after the longest, most terrifying moment of Tim’s life, does the vigilante silently decide to set him back down. He’s frowning, deeply upset and Tim doesn’t blame him—how could he? But it’s a rockier start than he’d hoped for. “You’re Dick Grayson. You’re the boy from the circus.” _

_ There’s a hand against his throat again and in that moment, he knows that all those thugs in Gotham have every right to be scared shitless. “You’ve got ten seconds to explain before you never walk again.” It’s the glare that gets him. “What the hell do you want?” _

_ His jaw sets and the pictures in his back pocket are suddenly heavier than before when he throws them to the ground at Nightwing’s feet. He’s shoved back and his hand flies to his neck, fingers shaking. “You need to come back to Gotham.” Medical reports. Crime scene photos. His own investigation tied up neatly with a bow. No sane person can deny the gore linking those reports together. But heroes are another type. He can’t speak for them. “He’s hurting people.” _

_ “It’s what he does,” he responds almost before he’s done speaking. He’s glancing down at the papers, moves the top one with his toe before he decides he’s done.  _

_ “He needs you. He needs a Robin.” _

_ It’s dark and the expanse of the warehouse makes it hard to hear small noises, but he sees the curl of Nightwing’s lip, the growl of fury under his chest and his feet turn to stone. “Listen. You may know my name. You may know his. But don’t kid yourself into thinking that means anything.” He moves to walk back into the shadows, slender and narrow-shouldered, grinding his heels into his research. Something else tugs on Tim’s stomach. “Forget what you think you know and go home. I don’t need some kid following me around.” _

_ The anger bubbles quick and is gone just as fast, but it does it. “You need to go back to Gotham! There’s no Batman if there’s no Robin!” _

_ He pauses, already half gone. His voice changes, goes a little softer, a little more bitter too. This isn’t Robin anymore. This is  _ Nightwing.  _ “Maybe there shouldn’t be.” He’s silent for a good long moment, face turned away before he pivots back halfway, shoulder turned back. “You’re a good kid. You’ve got a future, your parents love you—just go home, Tim.” _

_ Tim’s never known when enough is enough.  _

_ “You know I’m right.” _

_ But he knows when it’s not.  _

_ He stops, back still turned like the protagonist in some black and white western. It’s an eternity before he speaks again, all gruff and curt but there’s a whisper, a hint, a vague smell of something a little brighter. A little warmer.  _

_ He thinks it might be _ hope.

_ “Then do something about it. And don’t  _ die.”

He catches the batarang in one fist, inches away from Romanoff’s temple, just as predicted. But the satisfaction does jack shit against that all too familiar terror. 

He didn’t catch it then—he didn’t know how until the man showed him. The same man stands before him now, domineering, downright terrifying. And Tim just blinks at him. The Batman.

It’s the first time he’s seen Bruce since his last trip back to Gotham—more of a courtesy than anything else (read: grabbing his spare suit from his perch and overall panicking about the fate of the universe). Yeah. Courtesy. And they hadn’t even spoke. He doesn’t even think Bruce had seen him (but he’s not naive enough to actually believe it), perched stone-still (gargoyle-still?) atop the Clocktower, watching him and the brat traverse the skyline as mere pinpricks against the cloudbank. 

“Red Robin.” He shoves Barton back and completely ignores Romanoff when she catches him. And he has the nerve to grill him with that same  _ What the Hell Did You Do  _ voice. For once, he can’t find it in himself to give a single fuck. Thank God it actually shows in his voice because deep down, just like always, he’s just a few fucking degrees from absolutely  _ losing it.  _

No he’s not. He won’t give him the satisfaction. Not anymore. 

The numbness settles back in and his anger hunkers down. 

“Tim—“ Clark starts, looking the same as ever.

Because it would’ve been a hell of a lot easier if they hadn’t showed up at all.  

“Don’t.” 

Bruce’s eyes widen when he stares unblinkingly back at him. Around them, everyone bristles. His fingers are cold. They’re always cold now. 

Because this isn’t Batman. This isn’t the unstoppable force of nature that emerges when one Bat or another ends up on the wrong side of the grass lane—back when Jason had gone postal, when Damian had died—this is Bruce. If Tim was stupid he could mistake it for affection. 

He trades his glare for Stark’s, faceplate lifted to reveal narrowed amber. He’s done letting everyone ignore them. “Are you ready to listen to me now?”

Stark’s eyes flash—first with indignance, then with uncertainty. The nod of Rogers’s chin drags his gaze closer. He’s breathing hard. Diana and Barry definitely gave him a run for his money. “These are your people?”

_ That’s funny.  _ “They’re the good people. Just like you,” he says instead, albeit with no small amount of indifference. 

Stark glazes over it, staring anxiously at the League. “I highly doubt that.”

“You’re one to talk, Stark,” Barry says with a flippant scoff. 

The feeling in his gut twists at the speedster and Tim doesn’t really disagree. 

But Vision—Vision isn’t bickering, isn’t bothering with his comrades’ banter. No, he’s staring so intently at Tim that a very real prickle of uncertainty brushes his spine. 

He knows about the rest of them—Stark, the Captain, Banner, Barton, Romanoff, even the new players like the sorcerer—but nothing in his head, be it his own memories or others, sparks recognition at the android. He does, however, recognize the gem glowing in his forehead. 

“The mind stone,” he comments tonelessly.

Wilson nods at him with narrowed eyes. “You know what that is?” he demands, stepping forward and jabbing a finger in its direction. 

Tim’s eyes slide over. “Yes, and you’re stupid for keeping it here on Earth.”

“Excuse me?” Rhodes squacks deeply. 

“You have two infinity stones in the same dimension, same galaxy, same planet, same  _ city.  _ Where do you think Thanos will strike first?” His words are sharp when he glares. “Your Earth has housed three of the six stones in the past five years—you had the tesseract for centuries.”

Rogers frowns, almost angry in his confusion. Strange familiarity rises in his gut at the shield now nestled against his forearm. Did it use to be that small? “The tesseract is supposed to be in Asgard—“

“Asgard is gone,” he cuts off. A quick pain strikes his chest, gone before he can truly react.

“What?” Stark’s friend barks. Rhodes. He’s new too. 

Ice pours down his spine when he says the name, feels the rest of them shudder too, millions of miles and light years away. He wonders if they know why. “Thanos.”

Stark erupts from the side and Tim feels his body tense in preparation for the attack that doesn’t come. Instead, it’s Rogers holding back a powered gauntlet and menacing step forward.  _ He knows.  _ “You told us he was coming—you didn’t say he was already here!”

Tim snaps back, let’s the green in him channel for a second too long before he shoves it back down. “It wouldn’t have changed a thing. The fact that I’m here in the first place only proves that.” 

Bruce growls behind him, still an insistent darkness, a rain on his already pretty shitty parade. “That doesn’t explain how you got here in the first place.”

Tim shoots back tightly, “That’s the least pressing matter right now.”

“Or how why Proxima Midnight came looking for you,” he continues without missing a beat and he falters. 

It’s cold then, when they step back and he’s almost thrown at how  _ empty  _ it feels. “She came for me?” he echoes with narrowed eyes. It might be worry or fear in his chest—he can’t tell through the sudden nausea. 

“She came for the tesseract,” Clark corrects with a split second glare in Batman’s direction. 

Diana scoffs, looking between the three of them before settling on Tim’s gaze with something a little more forgiving. “She came to scare us.”

“Did it work?”

They don’t answer. 

“What’s going on?” Rogers leans into his field of view before he can swallow the vomit rising in his throat and stare at his feet. “How do you know all of this, Tim?”

He twists his stomach  _ hard.  _ Hard enough that his eyes flutter shut at the pain and his jaw is snapping closed.  _ Don’t.  _

He doesn't have to. 

“Because he has Loki’s memories.”

Barton stares at him, chin tilted back to bare a bruised, mottled throat. His eyes are gray and tired but in the back of Tim’s head, they look bright aquamarine. They look cerulean but he thinks about red. Another feeling that isn’t his swims in his chest—one swathed in green and gold and dipped in begrudging camaraderie.

“You  _ what?”  _ Stark hisses. Rogers doesn’t try so hard this time to hold him back. 

“It’s not so simple,” he growls. 

“Loki?” Barry repeats over him. His eyes wide, not like Bruce’s which are blank but narrowed, filled with fury he’s too careful to let spill. The speedster glances between the League, almost like he doesn’t even see the strangers flanking them. Tim notes the blood still trickling down his calf. 

“Who’s that?” Jordan asks blandly, finding his voice again. 

Stark glares for another second before answering without breaking eye contact. He finally shakes Rogers’ hand off his arm roughly before spitting, “Asgardian. Trickster God,  _ real _ pain in the ass.”

Diana’s eyes widen and she steps forward.  _ “Asgardian?” _

Barton makes a low  _ tch!  _ “I’m sorry, why is that such a spectacle to you?”

Batman growls deep, eyes narrowed to mere slits when he warms her and the air freezes. “Don’t—“

She doesn’t. 

“My name is Diana.” She’s never listened to them, not when it mattered. “Daughter of  _ Hippolyta.  _ Created by  _ Zeus.” _

It’s almost comical: the shocked look on Barry’s and Bruce’s faces, the flickering tension in Clark’s right before he chooses his side. He holds his hands up to the League, to the Avengers’ stumped faces. “We’re only here for Red Robin,” he states, voice strong and even. He meets Rogers’ gaze unfazed, like  _ Superman.  _ Say what you will about Clark Kent, the man can be intimidating (even if Tim has seen him bleary-eyed in bunny slippers before). “This isn’t our fight.”

“You’re wrong,” he blurts out instantly and the blue is on him. 

Rogers surges up again, always an insistent presence, a doorstop in the way of impulse and irrationality. “Not so fast.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tim finishes. Resolve burns in his core. “This is  _ everyone’s fight.  _ He won’t stop with one universe and he’s already sent his men through the breach.”

Stark finally pipes up, apparently done with being silent and already Tim is acutely annoyed of his voice. “Yeah, no one leaves this room until I get some fucking answers.” He steps in front of Tim, reaches to push Batman away by his shoulder with one iron gauntlet but he never makes it. Bruce has his wrist twisted, Tim’s batarang deep into a crevice in the plated of the suit’s neck: all in one suave motion. 

“Touch me again and you lose your hand,” he snarls gruffly. 

Tim just crosses his arms. This is what he gets for  _ collaborating  _ again. Superheroes are an odd bunch. 

The sheets start to peel back and glow blue, repulsors whirring to life. “Promise?”

_ “Enough,”  _ Rogers barks at them one last time. There’s something different in the order now, something that demands to be obeyed and he knows the two billionaires feel it, no matter how well they both hide it. It takes another moment for Stark to snatch his arm back and bat (ha) Bruce’s hand away from his throat. The hostility still simmers high, straddling the rim of the proverbial “gone to shit” line—as if it isn’t already  _ way  _ under the horizon. “Nothing is solved by arguing like this, alright? Calm down, and let’s talk about this like adults.”

No one challenges him. Not even Diana, who’s as hard-headed as they come. But Tim lets his lips slope, let’s the “really?” show on his face. The Captain seems good enough, but he’s never met the  _ Trinity.  _

“You should’ve told us,” Batman growls—only proving him right—but it’s a great deal more controlled. He’s been around Bruce long enough to recognized the tight anger, the fury. “You should’ve come to the League.”

Tim can help the scoff that hides the jump of his heart—the pain it brings. “Would you have believed me?” he demands. “If I’d said that Thanos could take on forces bigger than Brainiac? Than  _ Darkseid?” _

Steve holds a hand up, edging in between them when Batman’s eyes flare. “How?” he coaxed until Tim’s gaze shifts. “Loki’s memories—how much do you remember?”

He hesitates. This is the part of the plan he doesn’t like, the part he fought the hardest on: the pitch. Say too much, scaring them off will be the last thing he needs to worry about. Not enough and they won’t bother to help anyway. There are too many variables, too many factors that could blow the whole thing to kingdom come—as if the plan is bulletproof (or even  _ decent)  _ as is. 

_ The only thing you can trust at this point is the plan. You’ll figure it out, you always do.  _

“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I know what he does.”

“Where is he?” Barton demands, exuding an air of hostility toward him for the first time. Tim gets the distinct, foreign urge to snicker. 

He swallows, shakes his head. “I can’t tell you that.”

Stark laughs dryly. “Bullshit, why not?”

“Because he can get into your heads. All of yours.” He looks at Stark straight on. Looks at the circle of light in the armor. “Except his.”

Vision’s soft-spoken voice is anything but gentle when it manifests by his side once more. He reminds him of Kaldur’s stoicness, of J’onn’s diplomatic, no-nonsense character. Both plagued with knowledge and willing to bear that responsibility. 

Both dangerous beyond any description. “You’re lying.” 

Before he can answer his jaw locks and his mouth goes dry. 

Vision narrows his eyes at him. 

He can feel him too. The effects of the stone. All of it. He doesn’t like it. The android’s mind is complex and linear. It doesn’t work the same as his own—all numbers and calculations that form the basis of what is fundamentally  _ thought.  _ But Tim can  _ hear  _ it. Can feel it burrowing into his brain. He doesn’t notice it start to  _ hurt.  _

He’s trying to read him. 

He used to get seizures, back in Brooklyn when his fever got too high in the winter. Back then, there wasn’t ever enough money to go around. Not for soup—the good stuff that actually worked—or any kind of medicine. Doctors were out of the question, so usually it just ended up being Bucky, coaxing him through the worst of it, holding his hand by the bed just waiting for him to bite his tongue and the bullet. 

When Drake crumples to the ground, it’s sort of like that. 

The closest one is Sam, who bend back awkwardly, getting his arm underneath the kid’s side in the last second. The moment the muscles in his shoulders flex, Steve knows he’s dead weight. Batman is by their sides in an instant “Tim—“ he grabs the boy’s face in thick, gloved hands, turning him back and forth. The entire League bristles again and Steve stands over them, holding his hands out in a last ditch effort to keep the peace. 

“Sam?” he barks.

Sam lays him out gently, silently letting Batman hold his head while he twitches softly, eyelids fluttering. “I don’t know—just hold him still.”

Wonder Woman speaks up from behind them, sword unsheathed without any of them noticing in the sudden confusion. “What’s he doing?”

He turns to see the android staring intently at Drake’s fallen from, not aggressively or with any amount of hostility. Just confusion. The gem in his forehead burns bright and Steve feels what's left in his stomach do somersaults. “Vision?”

Superman lifts off the ground (how the  _ hell  _ is he flying?), bristling just as much as his companions, but in his case, he shifts the gravity of the room, makes everyone that much more nervous. “Make him stop, Stark.”

Tony snarls in retaliation but there’s no heat. “Tell me what to do one more time, boy scout.” He takes careful steps forward, to the android floating just off the ground, glaring down at Tim. He reaches out an arm. “Vis—cut it out. Vis!” 

The second they touch, sparks erupt off of the suit. The lights in the visor flicker and Steve’s stomach plummets when the arc reactor does the same until Tony’s snatching his hand back with a shout. 

“Stark!”

He really can’t help the gripe, the pure  _ warning  _ in his voice when he glares down at Batman, meets his own icy stare. “Son.” He doesn’t even react, doesn’t register just doesn’t do anything until he turns back to Tony, bristling under what’s left of his armor. “Tony—“

“It’s the stone,” he grinds out, cradling his arm and breathing hard. The suit keeps flickering around the vulnerable parts of him, the parts where his hoodie clinches under the armor, where his biceps and skin gleam with sweat. “He’s using the stone— _ Vision! _ ” He looks like he hesitates for a moment before he’s lifting one of the repulsors up, palm steady, and reactor starts to whir.

The sound seems to snap him out of it and he’s blinking again, “breathing” again. On the floor, Tim lets out a final shudder before his entire body goes lax. With a few curt words between them, Batman stiffly leans back to let Sam gently peel back the cowl over the boy’s face, to check his pulse and breathing. The Bat watching him carefully, eyes betraying nothing and everything, just steel resolve and protectiveness. 

“Vision, what did you do?” Natasha asks carefully. There’s still blood down her face but she’s on her feet and steady, reaching out to him.

He takes her hand but it’s automatic, like he’s not aware that he’s doing it. His mouth opens and closes before words actually come out. “I don’t know.” He blinks, sees them all poised against him, between Drake, still out cold in Sam’s and Batman’s hands. “I’m sorry.”

“What the hell is going on?” Clint spits then, shoving himself to his feet. Strangely, it’s Flash that reflexively leans down to pull him up when he teeters, hand wrapped around his forearm while his other steadies a sneering Lantern. 

Nat eases Vision back onto the ground but her words aren’t directed toward him. “We need to get out of here. Thunderbolt and Sentinel are gonna be on our asses any second now.” When he doesn’t answer, she barks at him, whipping around. “Steve, we have to go!”

“Alright!” he snaps back. Too much is happening at once. Too many people, too many factors and things to go wrong. Too many threats.  _ Focus on the one.  _  “Tony—“ he starts. He never gets to finish because he’s already shaking his head.

“No. No way—“

“Tones,” Rhodes tries. 

He keeps shaking his head, obsessively. “No—no, we’re not having this conversation. I’m done sticking my neck out and taking the fall—“

Then Rhodey is moving, grabbing him by the shoulders and holding him. “Tony, we don’t have a choice right now!” The genius freezes, eyes blown wide. “This is bigger than us. That kid—“ he jabs a finger behind him, “is bigger than us. And he needs our help.” His voice gets quieter when Tony finally blinks. Is this what he’s missed? What he left behind?  _ Is this what he did?  _ “Sharon’s already got Pepper, all we gotta do is leave because if he wasn’t coming here before, he’s definitely on the way now.” 

No one seems to breathe, caught up in absorbing and unpacking that entire ordeal. Natasha keeps side-eying him and Sam is looking back at Tony with an indiscernible frown. 

Lantern’s voice seems almost childlike and meek after Rhodes’ intervention. “Ross. What will he do if her finds us?” He eases off the Flash’s shoulder, hand still encased in an ethereal cast, neck and nose still bleeding. But just like everyone else, the heat and hate is gone for now, simply rooted in survival. In the mission. 

Tony shakes Rhodey off, not roughly but just enough to get the point across. “Us? Probably throw us back in the Raft. Or they won’t even bother.” He shrugs and Steve nearly buckles under the insinuation. “You guys? I don’t know.” He remembers DC. The Winter Soldier. and HYDRA, fixing a rifle to the back of his head in the middle of the street.  _ Not yet. Not here.  _

The sound of metal sliding echoes across the room and Wonder Woman stands taller, growling. “We’ll fight them off.”

Clint’s defense is instant, and he imagines he’s only the one speaking because Sam was too slow. “It’s the fucking government. They’re doing their jobs.”

Batman speaks for the first time. Doesn’t growl or bark, he just speaks and his voice isn’t what Steve had expected. It’s quiet, and soft, burns low and tastes sweet like wild blackberries and icing with the texture of tree bark. “Their job is to kill you, Stark.” Then he turns slightly, “Flash, check the perimeter.”

The hero nods, gaze still bouncing between Tony, Steve, and Superman before he’s gone, the only thing left being a stain of red, streaked across his retinas. 

“Tony.” Rhodey pulls him back, speaks low enough that Steve isn’t sure if he’s the only one that hears them. “They’re not going to let you walk away this time, you know that.”

He blinks, stares, doesn’t say a word or move an inch. But he’s thinking a mile a minute. 

“We can’t leave from here, they’ve got everything on file,” he starts, already starting a ramble on, words picking up speed. He jogs over to one of the rooms, picks over the shattered window and comes back with a sharpie. He pauses, just for a second, meeting Rhodes’ forlorn gaze. The colonel nods, producing a colorful curse from his lips. Then he’s grabbing Steve’s hand and he swears his heart stops.

His blood’s already pumping so no one but Natasha or maybe Clint will be able to discern the blush that heats his cheeks and rides all the way up his neck to his ears. Stark isn’t even looking at him. He uncaps the pen in his mouth and starts scribbling on Steve’s hand. “Rogers, you gotta take ‘em outta here. Go to this address, it’ll open up for you, Nat, or Barton. You tell Morse I sent you and you tell her to get you to the Fishbowl. Show her this code, tell her it’s a level ten.”

If Steve wasn’t used to compartmentalizing and multitasking, it all would’ve gone over his head because he swears that they’ve just stepped into a field of rosemary and lavender. He stops himself from gagging on it, can’t stop his heart catching in his throat and he chokes on that instead.

“Rhodey,” he continues, unaffected, “you need to go get him. He’s the next best thing.”

The faceplate comes down over Rhodes’ face and the visor lights up with the boosters in his feet. “I’m on it, Tones.”

“What the hell?” Clint deadpans after War Machine’s out the hole Vision made in the roof not half an hour earlier, whether it’s directed at him, Rhodey, or Stark, Steve doesn’t know. He’s still short-circuiting with his hand in both of Tony’s

But he’s turning away, too pumped to realize the he’s caught Steve flat-footed. “You. Are you with us?” 

It takes him a moment to figure out who he’s talking to because his fingers are still warm on his palm, sharpie sending electricity up his spine. Then he catches the taste of coal. “We’ll follow you, Stark.” Wonder Woman says with that same fire in her eyes, glancing between Batman and Superman.

He’s done writing but he hasn’t let go yet.  _ Not the time, Rogers. Don’t do it, don’t do it— _

But the words have already started falling. “Tony, I’m—“

Flash reappears with a… with a  _ flash,  _ and Steve rips his hand back like he’s been stung. His eyes are wide and he’s breathing a little hard. “It’s him. He’s here. Packing a lot of heat too.”

It’s quiet. There’s helicopters. 

“Steve—“ Tony starts, turning back to look at him.

“Let’s go.”

He makes sure he takes up the rear. Contrary to what the rest of the Ex-Avengers thought, not much of the compound has really changed. The layout is the same and when he directs Steve to lead them into the armory, he knows where to go. They have to make it back down to the sublevels where the holding cells are. 

He talks while they run, takes the stairs two at a time even though it jars the hell out of his bones. But he has to go back up. “FRIDAY, pack it all up. The drive in my lab.”

_ “I’m unable to access the hard drives. It seems they’ve been damaged.” _

“Integrity?”

_ “Negligible.” _

Only other lab interfaced with his. Two floors up with the best view in the compound. He’s spinning around like a cartoon character, feet slipping in every direction before they catch traction. “Pete’s lab—send them to Peter’s lab!”

“Tony!” Steve’s call echoes deafeningly in the stairwell and he feels everyone’s eyes on his back. 

“Go!” He doesn't know where he finds the breath to yell back, only knows that from the warning blinking on his visor, that he needs to get that drive. And if he gets caught, well, at least he’ll buy them some time. “I’ll be right behind you!”

He’s gone before any of them can call out again, racing back up the way he came. It had been a nice enough evening—rescuing, working  _ lawfully  _ with NYPD and ATCU. Now it’s just bitter in his mouth that this is one of those situations that  _ Steve  _ had forseen. One where there isn’t enough time to explain why there isn’t enough time. One where he doesn’t even  _ know  _ what’s at stake, just knows that it’s too much. 

The compound is so much darker when it’s empty, destroyed. God, they  _ wrecked  _ the place. There are caves and holes in the walls, cracks in the ground and shattered glass beyond his wildest dreams.  _ There goes another billion dollar facility.  _

He flies up to the second floor, punches his creds into the keypad and into Peter’s (miraculously) untouched lab. 

An alert blinks on his visor until he’s letting the helmet collapse. 

He’d been here just yesterday, after school. There are still formulas on the whiteboards, computer not even shut-down. Bits of robotics projects litter the tables, wires and capacitors and switches and boards. Would he ever get used to being uprooted?

They’ll tear this place up, turn it inside out. Break it down and build it up until they find something—anything. It’s why he never lets Peter bring anything in here with his name on it. Why the second he walk onto the grounds he isn’t Peter Parker, he’s Spider-Man. And only he, Pepper, Rhodey, and Sharon even know.  _ Too many variables, too many holes.  _

He picks his way around Peter’s mess of takeout food and textbooks and homework. The stick in the computer tower glows blue—also one of Peter’s. Tony eases it out with steady hands.  _ Rhodey’s got him. He’ll be okay. He’ll follow the plan. _

So why is his voice so hoarse when he starts to speak to Karen, “Karen, I need you to—“

_ “Stop!” _

Fuck. 

He’s blinded when he turns, a tac-light burning away his vision, even when he squints.

“Fuck.”

One of them he thinks, but that’s a gun—that’s a big gun. There’s a lot of his body—too much—that’s exposed. He could easily die by making the wrong move. So he doesn’t “Put your hands up. On your knees.”

“Alright, alright.” He folds his hands behind his head. This isn’t bad, he can think of something. The flash drive presses into his palm.

He can buy them time, enough to get to Morse and out of the state. SHIELD is already on their way there, and if he doesn’t show up, Johnson will raise hell. But Peter can’t be here. They can’t connect him to this, they  _ can’t. _

The light’s still trained on him, making him squint even looking away. There’s the sound of gear shifting and a radio clicking on. “I’ve got him. Unarmed, second floor lab room—“

The light clatters onto the floor and the operative never gets the chance to finish. This time, Tony actually puts his hands up, freezes where he is until there’s a warm hand on his arm pulling him to his feet. This one is safe. Familiar.

_ He didn’t leave me.  _

“Not this time,” comes the whisper. “C’mon.” 

He’d forgotten what the back of that shield looks like. 


End file.
